


Under the Fresco

by Caritas_Lavellan



Series: Earth Mind: Alternative Perspectives [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A Rainbow in the Sky, Angst, Dancing, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gold Silver and Bronze, Grieving, Humor, Introspection, Melting Snow, Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Why Solas should never get drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many things lie dormant, and some things simply lie. The truth is hard to uncover and only appears hidden in a thousand shifting reflections. What might Solas hide in a myriad tiny Veilfire runes written underneath the plaster and pigment of his fresco? I claim no secret wisdom, but I will guess as best I can.</p><p>This story is a counterpart to Mind Heart and contains spoilers for it, so you may wish to read that first. As with that, please forgive me where my theories depart from yours. <i>Tel garas Solasan</i> - and yet the secrets wish to be made known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Called from the Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o’er all brave sailors, all seas, all ships._  
> 
> 
>   
>  First _sa’vunin_ , upper part

Inquisitor,

Is this another impulse I may regret?

I write this now in runes hidden four times: by language, plaster, magic and art. You may never read this, but if you do, then know that you are worthy.

The runes are veilfire, not the violent fire of daylight, but the sweet fire of moonlight.

I sear each rune into the stones of the wall as you are branded fresh on my memory, as you burnt me with a touch, as you have consumed me with a kiss. As I long to consume you in turn.

I cover the runes with the _el’vhen’alas_ , with its mixture of lime and ash: Earth’s power of primal death and reminder of my regrets.

I write this letter in a language you barely speak, taken by time and entropy as the Sun’s heat warms the world to a common monotony.

I leave the runes in your fortress, protected by the ancient magic of _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ , the place where only the brightest spirits can traverse the Veil.

I am no chronicler to sing your praises with words, but an artist. I am silent, and my designs must speak for me. I will hide this tale behind my gift to you, what may be my last spark of creation. I do not fear others will uncover the runes: once I have painted the _el’sethnu’las_ only a vandal would destroy this art, and a vandal would destroy the runes with it. Perhaps in some thousand years the plaster will flake and a child will see a flicker of truth in what was once a glorious flame.

But still, this story exists, and maybe something will remember us when we are gone.

****

How did it begin? Sun through the ashes in the sky: I felt it, rather than saw. You were a mystery, and as I told you tonight, you still are. A fascinating mystery, to be worshipped and feared. You walked the Fade but could not stay there. It placed you where you belong, at the heart of a great temple. I left you there and ran.

It was no good. I cannot run from love. I had to wake to see you again. I thought it would cure me of my fears and hopes, but they only multiplied. I followed the thread again where it led to a small cell under Haven’s Chantry, and did what I could.

At first I didn’t know what to think. I have lived long and observed much, but this was new. You have such a bright spirit. Cole says it is like counting birds against the sun. Unique. Since Redcliffe I have wondered whether you are even more than I first thought: to herald time magic suggests that you can change the world in ways I can only imagine. I can make others forget, if I must. What if you can make me forget? What if you can make the whole world forget, and return to an earlier time? The thought brings me hope and fear in equal measure. Power is always disturbing, and powerlessness more so.

I decided to believe one important truth: that you either cannot, or do not choose to, read my mind. You might of course be reading it and acting as if you did not, but how would I tell? This is simply a matter of faith for me, and as with all beliefs chosen, it is shown in the actions taken as a result.

I should therefore confess that this writing is also a test, of sorts. If you can make me forget, but not the world, then it will create a discrepancy between what is written and what I remember. My gifts allow me to see the veilfire even through the paint, but not to change it. Perhaps I should not test you, for you have given me no reason for distrust, but old habits are hard to shake. If you can make the whole world forget, then I assume I will write and re-write these words as often as you choose. But I will choose to believe that the writing of them is my choice every time, and not your whim.

Indeed, I am glad to have written that: it has served its purpose in distracting me from tonight’s events. I need to be reminded of the power you hold: not simply the power of a beautiful woman over a man or the Dreamer’s call of a rare and marvellous spirit, but of something I can only guess at, beyond my world, glimpsed in fragments from the Fade.

Perhaps it would flatter your vanity – and it flatters mine to assume you do have some – to know that the greatest surprise in all of this was how easily I was swept away by your beauty, despite everything, despite your _vallaslin_ , despite your poverty of learning, magic or experience.

Your Dalish background repels me, and yet surely I would not feel such passion were the Inquisitor a Qunari like The Iron Bull or even a human Seeker-princess like Cassandra. This body knows what it likes. I do wonder if this too is no coincidence: is it a trap, that your powers allow you to take exactly the form that most pleases me? Or the inevitable workings of a Fate that knows my history and the history of this world? But perhaps I shall say more of that later.

From the only time I held your hand in mine, I knew. _I knew._ I knew beyond any doubt or reason or sense, beyond any logic or caution or duty. I knew I was yours to command. After tonight you surely know how I feel about you. It replays in my mind over and over: _felt the whole world change? A figure of speech. I’m aware of the metaphor. I’m more interested in felt. You change everything._

A fleeting passage: a ship passing in the night. Yet I fear I am now branded with a memory I will never choose to erase. In most people such a dream would inspire further action and greater hope. But, as I told you, I am not most people. Fear is familiar and it is madness to hope.

****

I know that kisses in the Fade aren’t covered by the Rules, and I could have dared more. But it is still wrong, deeply wrong, to kiss you when you scarcely know me. You should know me, not the masks I wear. And yet while my duty persists I cannot remove them. Has your clan taught you of the _Vir Banal’ras:_ the way of shadow? That is my way, and it is indeed a dark path.

It is getting light and I hear footsteps. A soft dawn. I must leave the tale here, under cover of _el’vhen’alas._ Come to me, sweet mystery. I will not embarrass you further. I am composed now and the mask is back in place.

Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The veilfire runes for the first eight chapters are hidden under the first four panels of the fresco in the rotunda. If you’re like me then you may have wondered: when does Solas find the time to paint four panels of the fresco between walking with the Inquisitor in the fade at night and greeting her the next morning… sleep well? I’d prefer to assume that the painting is created with pigment and plaster and takes at least a day per panel. This would tally with the Italian word for such panels, _giornata_ \- a day’s work. Solas calls them _sa’vunin_ \- a single day. 
> 
> The bottom layer of rough plaster, the _el’vhen’alas_ or _arriccio_ , needs to dry for a few days before the wet, fresh _el’sethnu’las_ or _intonaco_ plaster is added. Then it is a race against time to add the pigments before the wet layer dries: perhaps eight or nine hours. So in this story I assume that Solas only has time to lay the _el’vhen’alas_ for the upper half of the first _sa’vunin_ when he is interrupted by the arrival of the dawn and of his Lavellan. In general he lays the runes and covers them with the _el’vhen’alas_ while everyone is asleep, then works on the _el’sethnu’las_ on those days when he is not required to travel with the Inquisitor. A very careful apostate, but more than capable of swift action when required, as any _buon fresco_ painter has to be.
> 
> The subtitles for the odd numbered chapters come from Walt Whitman’s texts set to music gloriously in Vaughan Williams’ Sea Symphony. 
> 
> The subtitles for the even numbered chapters come from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot, a suitably fragmented nightmare of a poem.


	2. Faded from the call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo_   
> 
> 
>   
>  First _sa'vunin_ , lower part

Inquisitor,

I have decided to continue this. I am grateful for your tact: when we spoke you told me I could take all the time I need, and chose not to take me with you to Crestwood. You could not know what memories that part of Ferelden holds for me, but it is kinder than you know to let me paint in peace for a while. While I am impatient for your safe return, I will use the time well.

In trying to decide where to start, I first wondered: how far back do I go? As far as my memories, or further back into what is only conjecture and legend? Should I write “I” for all of the people I have been, all the masks I have worn, or have “I” changed so much that even “I” is a fiction? These are not mere conventions, but lie at the core of the difficulty. In my darkest moments it has seemed as if there is no core, and only lies. At other times I have been symbol and sign: a High Keeper of Secrets; a Dread Wolf; archangel; archdemon; the very Silence of the Universe itself. But right now I do exist, and I am your Solas. Believe that, if nothing else.

I think it will be easiest if I remember your Dalish background. Are you listening, _da’len_? A storyteller is nothing without an audience. _It all begins with a mummy and daddy elf…_

****

The Keeper looked around at the small group sitting on the grass. The twins Ilron and Gardis, the girls Liala, Devenne and Valya; and the other boy Paithon. Slightly apart from the children, his First sat perched on the low branch of a tree, whittling a toy with her deft hands, and listening.

“Tell us a story of Fen’Harel,” pleaded Liala. “He always looks so sad, facing away from our camp.”

“What do you know of wolves, _da’len_?” replied the Keeper, sitting down among the children. “Why do you think he looks sad?”

“I think he didn’t like it when Paithon kicked him the other day,” laughed Ilron. He made a face at Paithon, who scowled and looked embarrassed.

“Wolves hunt in packs,” said Devenne. “And Fen’Harel hunts alone. Perhaps he is lonely.”

“Wolves are intelligent, practical creatures,” said the Keeper. “Maybe he has a good reason for hunting alone. What might that be?”

He looked around the children, wondering who would be first to think of a reason. The clan’s hunters rarely hunted alone, so they might lack a frame of reference in which to place the question. His First might guess, but she seldom interrupted his lessons.

Liala tried first. “He might prefer it that way… oh, but then why would he be sad?”

“Maybe he got separated from his pack and is trying to find his way back,” said Valya.

“Perhaps his pack was killed, _hahren_ , and he has no choice,” said Gardis, who rarely spoke.

The Keeper nodded. “It might be all of those. There are many tales of Fen’Harel. I believe that he is the wolf that would keep on hunting even when he has no pack to provide for. Perhaps it is simply his own survival, but I think he seeks revenge by hunting those who killed his pack.”

“An assassin!” cried Ilron, his eyes shining in excitement. “Do you remember when that flat-ear stayed with us last year, and we found out later that he was a Crow from Antiva? Is Fen’Harel like that, _hahren?_ ”

“I think his style would not be as flashy,” said the Keeper, smiling for the first time. “A true assassin hides in the shadows. And for that reason, I do not think that our guest was indeed a Crow. Even they are more subtle. In fact, like the term Crow, the name Fen’Harel is not the name of an individual, but of a role. Let me give me you an easy question to start with: who can tell me of the _Vir Tanadhal?_ ”

The children all looked at Liala. A good hunter already, she was soon due to receive Andruil’s _vallaslin_ and so by rights this was her question. She recited it quickly:

“ _Vir Assan: the way of the arrow, fly straight and do not waver. Vir Bor’assan: the way of the bow, bend but never break. Vir Adahlen: the way of the forest, together we are stronger than the one.”_

“ _Ma serannas, da’len._ I am glad to see you remember your lessons. Now, what do you think it means by “the one”? Which one?”

“I think it means Fen’Harel,” said Ilron. “If we stand together, we will defeat the Betrayer, because he will not be able to turn us against each other.”

“But Fen’Harel is one of our gods,” disagreed Gardis. “If we were fighting him, why would we ask for his help in keeping away evil spirits?”

“Might it not be both?” asked Valya, ever the peacemaker.

“A wise thought,” agreed the Keeper. “Nothing about Fen’Harel or spirits is simple. You have answered my questions well, so let me reward you with the story Liala requested.”

He flexed his hands and coaxed the fire into greater warmth. Around them, shadows deepened.

“Listen carefully, for I shall not soon repeat this tale. There was a time, before the Veil was created, when two of the People lived in harmony with each other and with the spirits. You may call them Elgar and Mythal, though I suspect they have many names in many languages. They loved each other deeply, and did not think to hide that love. A great envy demon arose, and saw their love, and plotted to poison it. When the chance arose, it captured Elgar, studied him to learn his mannerisms, and took his form.”  

“Did not Mythal notice?” interrupted Liala, unable to keep quiet for long.

“I think someone did,” said Devenne, thoughtfully, “for his name became Elgar’nan: spirit of vengeance. I remember a tale where he brings vengeance on the Sun for the damage it brought to the Earth. Doesn’t Mythal find a way to calm him?”

“Envy demons are very rare, and very cautious, so they are not easy to detect. But like all demons, they rarely change their tactics. If you study them for long enough you can find a weakness you can exploit. Rage demons are vulnerable to cold damage; despair demons to fire. Envy demons have three weaknesses: they always long to possess those with greater power than their current host; they are vulnerable when changing between hosts; and then they can be overwhelmed with enough lyrium.”

“Please tell us what happened next, _hahren_ ,” said Paithon.

“When Mythal realised what had happened, she was greatly saddened. They had trusted the spirits and felt betrayed. But it was no use to kill Elgar’nan, because the energy of a spirit returns to its place in the Fade and can arise again and again. Since Love is the most powerful of all the spirits, Envy would keep arising and keep possessing Love. They needed a new approach, something that would keep the demons away more permanently. Do any of you remember the song about the Fade that Keeper Adatriel sang at the last Arlathvhen? I am no singer, but perhaps our First would be kind enough to repeat its chorus for you now.”

The Keeper met the gaze of his First and held it as she sang: a songbird perched on a tree. Perhaps she too was thinking of a busy tavern and a bard.

> _We held the Fade_  
>  _And the demon’s flight_  
>  _So far from our children_  
>  _And from our lives._  
>    
>  _We held together_  
>  _The fragile sky_  
>  _To keep our way of life._

She finished, and the Keeper, after a pause, continued his tale. “The Fade is what humans call it; we call it the Beyond: the land of dreams. You know of Mythal’s children: the twins Falon’Din and Dirthamen, Andruil the Huntress, Sylaise the Hearthkeeper, and June, God of the Craft.

“Where is Fen’Harel in this tale?” asked Liala, feeling cheated.

“What do you think it cost them to create the Veil?”

“It must have taken a lot of power,” said Ilron thoughtfully. “The Beyond is everywhere.”

“You are right, _da’len_. The People sought power deep in the earth. This was a time of great spirits and demons, of giants and dragons. Within the earth lie mighty beings called Titans, taller than the tallest trees in the oldest forests. The People slew a Titan, and used the power to construct the Veil. For a time they were happy: the Veil allowed good spirits and Dreamers of the People to pass freely between this place and the Beyond, but prevented demons from escaping. Mythal could still visit Elgar’nan in the Beyond, and the People sought justice and protection from her rather than from Elgar’nan.”

“I prefer Andruil to Mythal,” sighed Liala. “Mythal’s _vallaslin_ are boring.”

“You just don’t like trees,” said Ilron, grinning. “They get in the way when you’re shooting.”

“Our First has Mythal’s _vallaslin_ ,” said Devenne, looking up at the woman still sitting in the tree. “Why did you choose them?”

“Every clan needs someone to protect them, whether from others or from themselves,” smiled the First. “It may be boring to you, Liala, but forming views and judging actions is necessary. But we are interrupting the Keeper. I suspect if you want to hear Fen’Harel in this tale you will need sharp ears and more patience. Wolves are not easily caught.”

The Keeper smiled back at her. “ _Ma serannas, lethallin._ It seems that children do not listen unless you shout at them. I will continue. As Mythal’s power grew, the Envy demon sought to shift from Elgar’nan to her. At some point it succeeded. Her judging grew less wise, her protection fiercer. But it was a subtle shift, for Envy had copied her well, and few realised what had happened at first. At this point the People were immortal and ruled a great empire called _Elvhenan_. There were cities and nobles and slaves, and over time the empire grew crueller.”

He sighed and continued. “Mythal’s son Falon’Din sought power. His appetite for adulation was so great, he began wars to amass more worshippers. The blood of those who wouldn’t bow low filled lakes as wide as oceans. Mythal rallied the gods, once the shadow of Falon’Din’s hunger stretched across her own people. It was almost too late. Falon’Din only surrendered when his brethren bloodied him in his own temple.”

“Did they kill him?” asked Ilron.

“He was too strong to kill outright. One does not lightly kill a god, even in legend. No, I think something else happened, something worse. Once Falon’Din’s power surpassed Mythal’s, the Envy demon left her, and took him instead. Perhaps he intended this all along, although it is hard to be certain. The People imprisoned his body and sundered him from his soul and from his twin.”

“You think Falon’Din was tranquillised?” asked the First in horror, unable to stay silent any longer.

The Keeper nodded. “A dreadful fate. But I wonder if it was not worse for Dirthamen. I think he found Falon’Din’s soul and carries them both, seeking a way to defeat Envy and restore his brother. What would you do, Gardis, if bandits took Ilron?”

“I don’t know. Are you saying that Dirthamen is Fen’Harel, or that the Envy demon is?” asked Gardis.

“Keeper Adatriel said that if we had to fight bandits we should seek Falon’Din’s blessing,” said Ilron, thoughtfully. “That he supports those who take on quests from which they expect no return.”

“Yes, that is one interpretation. Sometimes the quest for wisdom takes us to dark places.”

The Keeper’s First coughed gently. “ _Hahren_ , it grows late. Perhaps the children have heard enough for one evening.”

He nodded, and smiled at Liala. “Tomorrow, if you are good, I will tell you another story of Fen’Harel. Sleep well, _da’len_. He cannot take you while you have me here.”

****

“What is the difference between an avenging god and a God of Vengeance?” asked the Keeper’s First, quietly, once the children had been settled in their tents.

“Do you still believe in gods?”

“I am not sure. Something must have happened to start all of these tales.”

“From my journeys in the Fade, I believe that a better term would be _avenging angel_. What is a god but a being of immense power? An angel might have purpose but lack power.”

“You did not answer my question, _hahren_.”

“ _Ir abelas._ The answer is that a spirit, or demon, cannot change its nature: it _is_ vengeance, or envy, or rage. Someone possessed by such a demon must be vigilant and fight continually against it. But if instead vengeance is chosen by a person as a specific purpose, for good reason, then I believe they remain pure in motive and in spirit. It is of course a matter of perspective as to what counts as good reason. This is the heart of the _Vir Banal’ras_ : the Way of Shadow. It is assumed when a debt of blood must be repaid, when an individual makes their own choice to dedicate themselves to vengeance.” **  
**

“Or to justice,” said the First, thinking of her choice of _vallaslin_.

“Sometimes the two are hard to tell apart,” said the Keeper, dousing the fire.

****

I will cover this with _el’vhen’alas_ and resume tomorrow. Once it has dried, I will begin the painting for real. The first _sa’vunin_ should show the Breach and the Conclave. I can see it in my mind’s eye already taking shape. I know you will appreciate it as it should be appreciated. The Orlesians have many flaws, but they know one truth at least: a mask can still be a thing of beauty.

Solas


	3. Wolf's hart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _A vast similitude interlocks all: all distances of place however wide,_   
>  _All distances of time, all souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different,_   
>  _All nations, all identities that have existed or may exist, all lives and deaths..._   
> 
> 
>   
>  Second _sa’vunin_ , upper part

Inquisitor,

I read back what I wrote and realised why I don’t normally keep a diary. Pure fantasy and oversimplification: a sanitised version suitable only for Dalish children. And even in that fantasy I imagined you stopping me from telling too much truth in front of them. Why should they not learn?

But how many Dalish would listen if I did tell the truths of their history? About as many humans as would believe you are not Andraste’s Herald, despite your best efforts to quash that perspective. People believe what they want to believe.

I don’t want you to think that I know everything, or that I never make mistakes. _Foolish Pride._ I know much more than I can trust anyone with, but that doesn’t mean I always make the right decisions. Far from it. My twin was always the lucky one. Stubborn, strong, loyal and soft-hearted, destined to rule: fate always seemed to hand him the better cards. You can guess where that left me.

And yet I beg you to believe: I never once envied him. I was content to wait in the wings, to follow where he led. Perhaps I still am. Striking from the shadows is what I do best.

Forgive my melancholy; I’m just tired of fighting. At least with you, this campaign promises to be full of surprises. At times you remind me of what he once was, and we always did better together. It would be good to contemplate winning at last. I have given that advice to others in the past, and perhaps I need to hear it myself.

I wonder what you’re doing. Skyhold is quiet without its heart, and I ache to see you again.

****

In some ways the parts of my history which have passed into Dalish legend are the easiest to imagine explaining to you. One of the strangest aspects of being an immortal among mortals is the sense of _déjà vu_ , of repetition, fragmentation, re-forming, of others living your own story, again and again and again. Sera knows what I mean: _It just feels like I’ve seen this. Exactly this. It happens._

One reason is that our Fade is finite: it reflects reality, and we dream it, and are shaped by it in turn. The empires, the revolutions, the grand passions: the spirits feed from them, and the stories seep back. Silver, gold, ice, earth: do you feel the rhythms of their dancing? In Haven I watched you leafing through a book of Fereldan lore, and smiled as you lost yourself in tales of the Frostbacks. In the Hinterlands we pieced together Tyrdda’s Saga, and I wondered if you were glimpsing any of the true history it masks, and the still-living People.

Does it matter? Most people act with so little understanding of the world. I would like to think you are different. You are so very wise for one so very young.

Let me be an old fool and pretend once more that the Keeper of Secrets has an audience. The next evening, perhaps, once the children are asleep.

****

“They say Ghilan’nain was one of the People, in the days before Arlathan.”

The Keeper frowned at the campfire. “Who says that?”

“You do,” smiled the First.

“Do you agree with everything I say?”

“Isn’t that my role?”

“No. You should question me. All of the tales are told from someone’s perspective. Learn to see beyond what is said to who is speaking.”

“You mean that we should question our teachings?”

“I think it is important to learn to see beyond the surface. How might you tell what really matters to a group of people? Perhaps what they choose to spend time on, how they live, how they die. Think about how we buried Sylera last month. We prepared her body for the journey, sang, let everyone say goodbye, and buried her under a tree.”

“How does that differ from what other peoples do?”

“A good question. The dwarves also bury their dead in the earth. Most of the humans burn their dead. Did you meet any Avvar tribes with your previous clan?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They are wild and fierce like ourselves, and guard their culture much as we do. When a member of their clan dies, they dismember the body and let it be taken by the birds of the air. They hold bears and stags sacred much as we rely on our halla. Perhaps when we next move on, we will head south. There is much to learn from new experiences. Would you like that?”

“I would, _hahren._ ” She was trying, and failing, to hide a smile.

“You are laughing at me,” he teased.

“You’re just… not what I expected. Most Keepers I met at the _Arlathvhen_ acted as if they would do everything to keep us away from humans. I assumed you would be the same.”

“And that pleases you? I am glad. Would you let me tell you an Avvar tale tonight? I first heard it many years ago.”

She nodded, and he led the way to the aravel they shared, holding the tent flap open for her with what he hoped she saw as an old-fashioned courtesy worth retaining. They sat down in their usual places, close enough to speak but not touch.

“Will it be a long tale? I am wondering if I have time to unbraid my hair. Valya wishes to practise braiding tomorrow before her duties.”

With that as incentive, it would be no trouble to make the tale as long as needed. But he had resolved not to add to the awkwardness of their situation by obvious flirtation, and so he simply smiled. “All the Avvar tales I know are long.”

And so he told her of the mountain that lies at the centre of the world, and the throne of Korth the Mountain-Father, who hid his heart in a golden cask under the Frostback Mountains.

He told her of the Mountain-Father’s cruelty, of avalanches and earthquakes, and of the bitter winds and lost souls that filled his chest.

He told her of the Lady of the Skies, and the birds she commanded: swift, clever and strong.

He told her of the humble ptarmigan, the mountain-dove, who succeeded where swift and eagle could not.

He told her how the ptarmigan found the golden cask, and of its shattering when it struck the earth, and the pain of the heart inside it.

He told her how the heart returned to Korth, and made him whole, and the bands of iron and ice that were used to bind it there.

And all the time, he watched her slender fingers pick apart the braids, teasing out knots and combing lengths straight.

****

It had grown dark. The First turned from him and made as if to undo the bindings that held her breasts tight against her chest, ready to slip on the tunic she slept in. Every night since she had arrived months ago he had held back, eyes closed, trying not to listen, telling stories to distract them both. Being captivated by her questions and her lilting voice. He could bear it no longer.

“Would you… would you like me to help with that?”

She stopped, startled. Perhaps she had given up on him. Then a quiet, softly embarrassed, “Yes, _hahren._ ”

“Do not be afraid, _lethallin_. I will not hurt you.” He moved closer and softly placed a hand on her shoulder. She was shivering, her aura pulsing too rapidly. “Have you undone your leg bindings?”

“Not yet,” she whispered.

“Let me start with those, then.” He shifted down to kneel at her feet, and untucked the weave from around her right ankle, unwinding it gradually with long, sure fingers. He was careful not to touch her more than was necessary.

“Do you know why you were given to this clan at the _Arlathvhen_ , _lethallin_?”

“You needed a mage. My clan already had three mages. When I came into my magic they told me that when I was of age, Keeper Adatriel would find another clan that needed a First.” She stopped, perhaps unsure whether to say what else the Keeper had told her.

“Yes, that is right.” He had reached her knee, and lifted it gently as he drew the last of the leather away. “What did they tell you about me?”

“They said you were a good man, that you looked after your clan well. That you would be lonely, and I could be company for you. They said…”

He paused, lifting her left foot to reach the end of the weave. “They told you about my wife?”

It seemed to renew her courage. “Yes, _hahren_. _Ir abelas._ I am sorry for your loss. They said she died in childbirth. They said you had been alone for too long, and it was your…”

She faltered and stopped, and he felt her aura flicker with subtle anger.

“My duty to take a First again? Yes, that’s right. Do not be frightened of telling the truth, _lethallin_. She died many years ago. While I would not wish to forget her, even I recognise that I must move on from grief.”

For some moments he concentrated only on unweaving the bindings. Then he chuckled. “I am sure that was not all they told you.”

“No. They told me that it was my duty to give… to give you children, to increase the chances of preserving our magic and our culture. They said your magic was old, and mine was strong, and that we would be a good match.”

“What do you think, _lethallin_? I have given you the chance to get to know me, to know my magic. Do you think we are a good match?”

He finished the second leg and sat back on his heels. “You know I do not blindly follow where others lead. But you have had a chance to observe me, and in this, your opinion is everything.”

“What of your opinion? Does that not matter?” countered his First.

He smiled. “You are beautiful and wise. You sing like the sweetest bird and have been kind to our clan. How could I not want you? It is you who has the choice in this.”

“Do I really have a choice, _hahren_?” She sounded sad. At him, or the situation?

“I made it a condition of taking you. There were at least three other clans who wanted you. I made it very clear to their Keepers that if, after you had had the chance to get to know me, you were not interested, I would not deny you – or them – a different path. Do you believe me?”

“Keeper Adatriel did not tell me that.”

He could scarcely see her face in the dark, but her voice sounded… hopeful. Excited?

The old Keeper sighed. “I had wondered whether you knew. Perhaps you are right. I am old, and you might prefer someone younger. For whom you would truly be their first.”

“I did not mean that. I meant that it is good to know that it is a choice. For both of us. I have seen that often… it is not. But, _hahren… lethallan…_ I am willing. You would have to drag me from here before I left you.”

 _So she does love me, then._ The thought was like soft rain, falling in the lonely desert of his heart, creating an oasis. He felt lust pulsing through him. “The word is _vhenan_.”

And then, she was in his arms, and he would never, never let her go.

****

 _Emma vhenan._ Words that should not be uttered where there is no true knowledge and no true choice. Soon others will be awake, so I must stop. Perhaps next time I will play historian for a change.

Solas


	4. Heart of the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _There will be time, there will be time_   
>  _To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;_   
>  _There will be time to murder and create,_   
>  _And time for all the works and days of hands_   
>  _That lift and drop a question on your plate;_   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Second _sa’vunin_ , lower part

Inquisitor,

It is time that I start to tell my story plainly. Things have always been easier for me in the Fade, the land of dreams and stories, but there comes a time when it is better to reinforce reality. I admire the dwarven Shapers, and it is time to give them their due.

For I am Dirthamen, and they are the bears I hold most dear. I am sure you must know the Dalish tale that I refer to.

_“When the world was new, Dirthamen gave one secret to each creature to keep. The foxes traded their secrets to Andruil for wings. The hares shouted theirs to the treetops. The birds sold theirs for gold and silver. Only the bears kept Dirthamen's gift, deep within their dens, they slept the months away in the company of their secrets and nothing else. When Dirthamen discovered what had been done with his gifts, he snatched the wings from the foxes, silenced the voices of the hares, and turned the birds into paupers, but the bears he honoured for their steadfastness.”_

What truths does this hide? To unpick this, I need to talk about death and the nature of the Veil.

The whole world now sees the fragility of the Veil, torn by the Breach and by a multitude of smaller rifts. The Veil becomes thin either where there is much death or great history; I told you it was due to spirits pressing on the Veil. By showing you the “artefacts of my people”, I have let you conclude that the Veil is a construction. Indeed it can be both re-constructed and deconstructed.

Most legends and teachings imply that the Fade existed first, and that it is our reality which was born from it. The Dalish talk of a time when the People did not die, but instead would walk in the Fade with me and Falon’Din; and some would return, enriched by wisdom. The Avvar believe this state of affairs persists. Chantry teachings state that, when the living die, their souls pass through the Veil. And the dwarves? They return to the Stone.

I hold them as they die.

How can an elf be a Keeper of dwarven souls?

I sometimes think that I should just accept one of Varric’s many offers to play Wicked Grace, taking along a cask of Cabot’s best Legacy White Shear, and tell them how the game really got its name. If I were my twin it might actually work as a strategy, but for me… well… it might provide some brief entertainment before the inevitable apocalypse.

****

Varric led the way to the Herald’s Rest, grinning widely at the success of his new capture. “Look who showed up, everybody! Deal him in, would you, Ruffles?”

“I do hope I remember the rules,” smiled Josephine. “It’s been ages since I played a game of Wicked Grace.”

Cole frowned. “There’s a crown on his head, but a sword too. His head didn’t want either.”

“Don’t talk to the face cards, kid,” said Varric, looking at me. _You want him, you deal with him._ I smiled slightly and took the first of many long draughts of the Shear.

The night wore on, and the drinks flowed. I watched, enthralled, as you spun a tale about your aunt and the murder of Queen Madrigal. Then you looked across the table at me, all innocent sweetness. “I think it’s our professional storyteller’s turn to tell one.”

Before Varric had the chance to wonder which of us you meant, I leant forward and placed my cards face up on the table. “I think I can manage that. Did I ever tell you the story of how I single-handedly defeated five archdemons and almost destroyed an entire civilization?”

“You’re shitting us,” said Bull.

“I’ll tell that one another night, then. Would anyone like to know why we called this game Wicked Grace?”

Sera kicked me from under the table. I passed her a bottle of Dragon Piss and continued.

“Her name wasn’t really Grace, it was Ghilan’nain. She was good at making things, really good. Dragons, serpents, halla, turtles…”

“I’ve never heard of a turtle,” said Josephine, dealing out the next round.

“They were an early model, didn’t work out. Went too far down. Anyway, dragons have strong blood and are very hard to dominate. Much like our Inquisitor, in fact.”

Dorian snorted. “Get to the point, Solas.”

I took another draught of the spirit. 790TE, a good vintage. “So, naturally, all of the most powerful mages wanted one. We figured out a way to use the dragons: get a load of slaves and bind them to us, to increase our power. Then we could use our spirit parts to possess the dragons and switch between them and our elvhen bodies at will.”

Sera kicked me again, harder this time, and pushed herself out from under the table. “Dirth, you’re missing out the best bit.”

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this.”

“I lied. Who wants to think about stepping on dead elves?”

“Hey, at least I tried to fix it!” I glared at her, and she stuck her tongue out at me. So predictable.

“Do you two know each other?” asked Dorian, passing Sera – _Andruil_ – another bottle.

“She’s my sister,” I said, at the same time as Andruil – _Sera –_ muttered, “He’s my ex.”

“Now I’m really confused,” said Varric. “You two go back a long way, do you?”

“You clearly have hidden depths, Sera. I didn’t think your tastes ran to men,” said Dorian. “And particularly not an elfy elf like Solas.”

“People are people, who knew? And anyway, he wasn’t Solas then.”

You were looking stunned, and despite the drink I couldn’t really blame you. I cleared my throat and tried to explain. “We kind of shared a dragon for a while. It’s complicated.”

Cole looked at us and said, puzzled, “You like to dance, but can’t. You hate to sing, but can. You should not paint. It would be very bad if you did.”

Sera glared, but didn’t say anything. I looked across the table and saw a halla turning to stone in front of my eyes. _But, vhenan, didn’t you want to know more about me?_

Cassandra cleared her throat, looking slightly panicked. “Solas, I think you were going to tell us why this game is called Wicked Grace.”

I knocked back another glass. “It was mostly my brother’s fault. He was the eldest, and he had set his heart on having the most powerful dragon of all. There was a reason, but I’ve forgotten why. But he went too far, and our mother had to stop him. We had our own version of the Rite of Tranquillity then, and they used it on him, to separate his spirit from his body.”

“If you’re Dirthamen, does that mean that your brother was Falon’Din?” you asked, your voice faint and unsteady. I saw that Cole had gone round to crouch down beside you. Two Coles. Two Inquisitors.

I put my head in my hands, and began to weep drunkenly over my cards, unable to stop the words as they spilled out of my mouth:

> _"Lightning split the spitting rains_  
>  _Sundered over prideful heights_  
>  _Dragon fell in rubble down_  
>  _Crashed and crushed in earth’s mad shaking."_

I felt Andruil put an arm around me. “It’s ok, Dirth, I’ll protect you from the mad humans. They’re going to be pissed as hell when we tell them about Andraste anyway. You can join the Red Jennies when we’re done here.”

Wiping my eyes on the dirty handkerchief she thrust at me, I forced myself to smile up at her. “I am not surprised that you were drawn to Ghilan’nain. She played us all.”

“Yeah. Arse-biscuit. Thing was, I saw her first. She was a handful. Two of them. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and then she won the frigging game. Every time. Know now I shouldn’t have taken her.”

Josephine coughed delicately. “Was she that wicked? What happened?”

“Takes one to know one,” retorted Sera. _Andruil. My head aches._ “What happened was that we tried to reverse what had been done to Falon’Din, because now everyone was dying and they weren’t coming back any more. The king was dead, and we just had my lord the Duke here as the heir. Ghilan’nain said that we could mix the hive minds of the Titans with our dragon souls, and with enough lyrium, it might do the trick. She was pretty. And big. It made sense at the time.”

“Whazza Titan?” asked Cullen, knocking back another pint of sack mead and looking slightly green. I could hear him thinking _is she going to ask me to fight these scary mages oh Maker oh god maybe I’d better get drunk and it will all go away oh sweet Andraste oh fuck._

Sera ignored him. Far too late, I remembered I was Dirthamen and not Falon’Din, and sensed the pull of the abyss yawning. “You forgot to mention the orb,” I said, and felt everyone looking at me.

“Is that the same orb as Coryphy-shit has? The one with all the dead dwarves in it?”

“Corypheus,” I corrected, automatically. “Yes, the Stone. Which reminds me, since you remember more than I thought, have you ever wondered if Corypheus is Lusacan going back in time?”

“Have you ever wondered what would happen if you just stopped thinking and… I dunno… fucked the girl for a change?”

“I don’t have to wonder. I know. Doesn’t end well.”

Varric was looking from me to Sera and back. “Maybe inviting you to play Wicked Grace wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

“Says the dwarf who names his crossbow after… what was it again? Bianca, right? It’s the ones who are all white and lovely on the outside that you really have to watch.”

You shook off Cole at last, and stood up, fire and lightning dancing all over your hands, a veritable fury. You stormed over to Sera and blasted her back into the fireplace. _Gorgeous_ , I thought, pathetically. _I should make you mad more often._

“Don’t you dare take this out on Varric. What’s he ever done to you?”

Sera smirked at you. “I thought every Dalish girl secretly wanted to fuck the Dread Wolf. S’all right, if you don’t fuck _with_ him. Got to watch when he tries to take you from behind, though.”

She leapt up, turned and thumbed her nose at me, getting ready to shift. “So, Dirth, Minrathous or Par Vollen? I’ll race you north.”

I watched blindly as she wrenched open the tavern door, and a hawk flew out into the night. She was right. There was nothing left for me here.

As ever, Dorian had to have the last word. “What a _fascinating_ tale, _Solas_. There’s just one thing I don’t understand. How did the ancient elvhen control their slaves?”

“Through their _vallaslin_. _”_

A flash of lightning lit the tavern as you turned on me, murder in your eyes and in your heart. “You heartless bastard. I know you hate the Dalish, but that’s just sick.”

My disembodied spirit caught Varric’s words just before I split into a thousand crow pieces. Again.

“Looks like the duke… has fallen from grace.”

****

I’d better make this a really thick coat of _el’vhen’alas_ , hadn’t I? There are multiple advantages to being the _quiet_ elven mage.

Solas


	5. Time out of mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On the beach at night alone,_   
>  _As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,_   
>  _As I watch the bright stars shining,_   
>  _I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future._   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Third _sa’vunin_ , upper part

Inquisitor,

Forgive me. I am trying to explain, but it is not easy to compress ages of unspoken wisdom on to the walls of one small circular room. If you do ever read this far, you may have begun to realise that I am begging you to help me. And that yet I am too proud, and also too wise, to ask. It is hard enough to walk this path alone, so how could I wish it on one I love, or even on an enemy?

And it strikes me now that perhaps I should ask Sophiyel’s forgiveness too. I haven’t told you about Sophiyel yet, either here or in reality, but it seems likely that I will.

There is one truth that needs to be accepted: I am a Mind, and my body has changed many times.

Does that bother you? If you can think of spirits as people, and be friends with Cole, then you may be able to accept my history in its entirety. Otherwise, I am Solas, and I will most likely soon be dead.

There is one claim that has to be taken on trust: I do this out of love, and not envy.

At some point you will need to decide if you believe that claim.

****

And what of the Blights? In possessing the archdemons, I controlled where they went, suffered the deaths of each darkspawn creature, killed countless mortals, fought my own kin, and was killed over and over again by the terrified and desperate. Those scales weigh heavy on either side of the Veil.

It is possible to try to own the decision: _I am trying to possess each blighted dragon in turn to hoard enough power to win in the end, and ensure the world still stands. This path was my choice. Heed the plea from the warrior to the spirits: kill the hound in my heart and give me the wolf._

It is possible to try to dodge the blame: _None of this was my fault. Mythal created me as a twin soul; Falon’Din went on a power trip; Andruil went crazy going after him; Ghilan’nain messed everything up further; and I’m the only one who is smart enough to put things right._

I take comfort from the fact that you take time to ask questions, and to listen. So long as there is a fair trial, I could accept any judgement you might make. I suspect I might even find it a relief to have someone else make those decisions for a change.

****

Yesterday I painted the first _sa’vunin_ : the Breach and the Conclave. I meditated for a long time beforehand and both that and the painting served to anchor me again. Enduring is necessary.

Leliana’s interest was already piqued, and she had sent the Archivist to observe me paint. I like Banon: he doesn’t interrupt, and he agreed to source me some of the rarer azure pigments I will want later. I told him that Skyhold is your fortress and that the panels show your actions, and left it at that. I am happy with the first. It has been a long time, but I have not lost my touch.

I will spend today helping Josephine with some of her research, and by tomorrow the _el’vhen’alas_ for the second panel will be dry. I can see a great sword piercing the eye of the watcher, and howling wolves. The reference can be taken to your Dalish background: they would expect me to pay some sort of tribute to a fellow elf.

Speaking of the Dalish, I wonder how the Keeper prospers with his pretty new wife. You will of course realise that their story is a blend of fades past, present and improbable future. And I know - perhaps none better - how far reality normally slips from an ideal. So, if you are still reading, please do not see this as some standard that you are expected to meet, or that I could always deliver. If we were ever truly together, I am sure that there would be as many mistakes and miscommunications as in any real romance. But I am also sure that somehow it would be glorious.

In any case, I expect this to remain a hidden fantasy, a solace; sweet commissioned grace. I owe it to us both to make it as beautiful as it should have been.

****

She had been a revelation. A hundred revelations over a hundred starlit nights. As he followed her into the aravel, his eyes lingering over the contours of her body, he wondered what the hundred-and-first would bring.

Whatever it was, he felt ready: hot lust burned through him as it had before the first time. Stronger than then, amplified by many fresh new memories. Confident and desirous, he reached for her, merging his aura into hers, seeking to unwrap her and paint her mouth and breasts and clit and cunt with kisses and magic all over again.

It made it even more of a shock when, halfway through his ritual of removing their clothes, she drew back. She pulled her aura away, tight to her skin, lowering her eyes to watch it playing close around her hands, and said, “No.”

“No?” He felt confused and hurt, bereft of her aura and the feel of her skin. So close. He wanted to reach for her, pull her back to him, but reason stopped him. Was this another game, or a genuine problem? For a brief moment he wondered if she were going to tell him she was expecting their child, and felt both elation and sheer terror at the thought. Without thinking, he drew his own aura back to mirror hers.

" _Hahren_ ," she said, still watching her hands, "why does it feel so good?"

He felt relieved. _Not pregnancy then._ "Is that a serious question?"

She reached up, her eyes pensive, and traced the line of his jaw with soft fingers. "It was an earnest question. I had expected to take joy in physical pleasure, and indeed I would be satisfied if that were all. But the magic... it is far beyond anything I could even imagine."

He stretched out his hand to caress hers, leaving a trail of frost that shimmered and melted in the dim warmth of the aravel. "How so?"

"You know, but you want to hear it from me?"

"How well you know me already, _vhenan_. You are correct."

"It feels like... As if every spell you cast within my aura is filling a void I never knew existed. And I believe it is the same for you. Ice against fire. Tranquillity against force. Yet complementary, not in opposition. I don't know how that can be possible, but it is. And somehow even though we ought to be using up our combined mana, it just seems to increase."

He hummed gently, sliding his hand down, over her hip and up again to tickle the bare skin below her breasts. Lightning danced on his fingertips, and she shuddered again in pleasure. He was calling the magic from her mana, but with their auras synchronised in the overlap, it had the effect of pushing power into her from him, filling her up.

"Yes, that’s right. It is the magic of creation at its most mysterious. All magic and all virtue can be represented by geometry, and in any shape there are points that balance or counter-balance each other. Like the antipodal points of a sphere or the opposite corners of a square."

"Like sunlight and moonlight in our tales? Reflections and shadows."

"Yes, or placing different colours of stained glass atop each other. It even works for understanding the nature of spirits in the Fade: by bringing together wisdom and compassion, both are enriched."

She smiled. "It should not surprise me that a painter understands how best to mix colours. The children loved watching you blend minerals for the new mural."

That had been a happy thought of hers, to give the clan something new to talk about. They had been so used to having their fill of their Keeper’s attention at whatever time of day or night, that some had begun to resent his obvious preoccupation with her, and even his happiness. He found he could not care less, thinking of all the long years he had carried out his duties without complaint; but it had bothered her. And it did feel good to give back to the clan some part of the joy he found in her. He had not felt able to paint for many years.

He ran his eyes over her bare limbs, her neck, her lips, her bound breasts and the curve of her hips under her short skirt and sighed with tender pleasure. A beautiful blend indeed.

"In this I could have no better muse, I assure you. It is the reason Adatriel entrusted you to me: she could see how well-matched we were. I knew it too, the first time I held your hand. Our auras merged as if there was no impediment, no barrier."

"I felt it too. But I did not recognise it at the time. I was too scared of the unknown, of leaving my clan. And of the responsibilities that being a First would bring."

"You thought I was too old, too serious." It was not a question.

"Yes, that's right. But you are not old inside. Timeless, perhaps."

She let her aura spiral out towards him, over his hands, feathering it playfully down his bare chest and leaving it temptingly close. He knew she could feel the weight and texture of his lust.

Chuckling, he drew her closer, placing a kiss on her forehead and another on her lips. "You flatter me, _da'len_. In truth you make me feel young again. Which reminds me..."

He reached as if to shape a glyph just inside the Fade, thought for a moment, and then pulled the magic inside-out and backwards, using her mana instead of his. Crimson frost sparkled on his fingers, growing rather than melting, and he grinned like a boy.

"That's interesting. I wonder if anyone has tried that before."

"What is it?" She sat up to inspect it more closely, her bare skin glowing pink and scarlet as he flexed his hand in front of her.

"You could call it veilfrost. It looks like frost, but feel how warm it is."

"How did you...?"

"It wouldn't be possible with only one mage, or with two mages whose abilities were not so powerful or so closely aligned. I used a fire glyph drawn from your mana, then reached forward into the Fade's potential rather than back into its memory."

"I have seen you use veilfire. Is it similar?"

"There are other ways to tap veilfire, and that secret has been known for aeons. But this... I think this is new. Harder, because of the need to scry out future possibilities and combine them correctly."

"Is it dangerous?" Her eyes were fixed on the glowing red crystals.

"You're meant to tell me how impressive that was," he chided, still grinning.

She rolled her eyes. "It's my mana you're doing it with. You should be telling me how impressive I am."

A peal of laughter, and a mock bow. " _Ir abelas_ , _vhenan._ _Ar lath ma._ You are quite right, as usual. Would you like me to name this new spell in your honour?"

"Tell me if it's dangerous first."

"All magic is dangerous. Power is dangerous. Even love is dangerous. Why does that matter? But if you are asking whether I can control it, then I think the answer is yes. I will need to use your mana again. Remember that this will make you feel more powerful, not less."

She nodded, and he frowned in concentration. Usually, magic dissipated through entropy as it flowed into the future. This would have to be concentrated into the past, as a created artefact hidden in the Fade. He focused on bending and shaping it into symmetric fractal branches, pushing its centre into the Fade first and then tapering off each branch. After half an hour the structure had been reduced to a shimmering crimson sphere, each point of veilfrost the end of a branch.

He made one final gesture and all the points of the sphere slid through the Veil simultaneously. The Keeper looked ruefully at his partner-mage, her skin quicksilvered in the moonlight. He felt drained of power, but she was incandescent, her aura rippling with more magic than he ever remembered seeing before. Wincing, he flexed his hands. "That was harder work than I thought."

"But very impressive control of my mana." She leaned in and kissed him warmly on the lips, and he pressed back hungrily, twining his hands in her hair and tumbling her on to their bedroll. He felt like a boy again: as if the Fade were just another wooded path leading who knows where: new excitement around every corner. Who knew entropic reversal could create a goddess in this way?

He tilted his head back to look at her, grinning wolfishly. "Are you sure you are suitably impressed yet? I think I need more practice. If veilfrost exists, how about veilstrike, or veil-lightning?"

“You wish to get drunk from my power, _hahren_? There will be a price to be paid.”

He had never heard her speak in so confident a tone before. While he was trying to work out what she meant, half-blinded by her aura, she had pushed his arms behind him and secured one of her discarded leg bindings tightly around his wrists behind his back. Her movements had been so swift and strong that he had scarcely realised what she was doing until it was complete.

Her aura washed over him like the ocean, and he was drowning in its light.

All magic drained, he could only watch with dark hungry eyes as she freed her breasts and dipped her hand between her legs, bringing out a hand coated with arousal and shimmering with mana. His cock hard and desperate in his breeches, he moaned as she ran her fingers lightly along his lips.

And then she sank down, her thighs astride his head, and let him lick his magic back.

****

We were all young once. Was that really what it was like? It gets harder to remember.

Solas


	6. Mind out of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I know the voices dying with a dying fall_   
>  _Beneath the music from a farther room._   
>  _So how should I presume?_   
> 
> 
>   
>  Third _sa’vunin_ , lower part

Inquisitor,

There is a world of difference between making someone do something and letting them do it. What price victory in war if you lose your soul along the way? The fiercest battlegrounds lie within.

****

Nothing is a game. Everything is the Game.

If I have learned one thing from my experiences, it’s that tiny details matter. Subtleties are important; individuals are crucial. Not only the obvious pivots: the heroes and Inquisitors, champions and kings, but the spies, servants, seamstresses and slaves. Sera is not wrong.

History repeats in miniature all around us, a million loves and a million betrayals, mutating mutatis mutandis. Who knows which of those million choices are relevant in the long run? Every army general knows that victory is only statistical. It depends on what your opponent chooses to do.

Understanding probability theory helps – and I will remember not to beat Blackwall so easily at Diamondback next time – but it has to be combined with a deep knowledge of the phase space in which it operates. The fabric of the world is based on certain Rules: we break them at our peril.

A final point, and the most subtle of all. Even simple sets of rules may lead to complexity surpassing the ability of any mind bound by those rules to grasp. Knowledge is _always_ incomplete.

****

Before the Veil, the notion of right and wrong was less persistent. I spoke about the Veil as a prison for demons: for Envy in particular. But without the Veil, what would distinguish Love from Envy? Love seeks to understand, Envy seeks to understand. You might accept that not even the act of usurping of a person’s form is demonic, although that view is rare: most people forget Cole, rather than embrace him. Motives matter.

So what do you know about the war? It’s not about right or wrong. It’s about attention when you think you’ve been forgotten.

The Rules are many, but here’s one: each child born has a soul that was previously a spirit. Those spirits strong (or good) enough to traverse the Veil become mages; those imprisoned within the Fade as “demons” do not. The strongest spirits become Dreamers like ourselves, able to walk its paths consciously.

But the waters of the Fade are draining away: it is easier for mortals to be cowardly than brave, proud than wise, despairing than compassionate. Most of the spirits returned to the Fade are weaker, and once weak enough, they do not regenerate; they pass out. It is not just griffons, dragons, mages, dwarves and elves that are endangered, but all of us.

There is a tide in our affairs, and your Anchor is the key. But can you find the lock?

 _Master-scryer, be our guide; through shapeless worlds and airless skies._ I wonder what Falon’Din would say to me now, if he could?

****

Out of the shadows like an unwanted gift: a young man, drenched in blood.

“Who’s chasing you?”

“Our enemies.”

I nodded: those demons had killed my mother too. We walked home.

“Why bring me here?” he said. “It’s dangerous for you.”

“Where else would you go? Everyone wants a piece of you. We can buy you time.”

“How?”

The mountains crumbled, and we hid in the Fade. To me it is familiar, like Haven was to you: the ravens show the way. He’s the opposite: no idea where he is, but he still shoots straight. And always saying something. I’d forgotten how much he talks.

Eventually I got tired of his rambling, and glared at him. “Do you even remember Andruil? Or Ghilan’nain? Andraste? Mythal?”

We were riding up to Skyhold, and it started to snow. Both half-frozen, chilled as dragonbone.

“I remembered you would help me,” he said. “And you did.”

We fell quiet and trudged on. Inevitably, he broke the silence first: “Where are you taking me?”

“ _Tarasyl’an Te’las._ To _ma’asha._ ”

His face lit up. “You found someone at last?”

I merely nodded.

“And she’s not a dragon?” He grinned at me through the blizzard, licking the snow off his lips.

“Not yet. She’s all yours.”

Falon’Din smiled. “Will you ever stop trying to find me someone?”

I shook my head. “It’s not for you. It’s for the world, remember?”

****

We passed through the great gate and crossed the bridge, into the courtyard. The wind whipped icy sleet into our faces.

He stopped beside the tavern, looking up. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

“Yes. We must be careful not to scare her. She doesn’t know.”

“Does she even know who you are?”

I shook my head, frowning.

“Why bring me here, then?”

“I thought you might help me find the words.”

****

We took the horses to the stables, saw them fed and watered, and sheltered in the smithy. I knew we should change out of our sodden gear before we met the Queen. I started to do so, numb fingers unwinding stiff leathers. He stood staring at the wall.

“It’s amazing it survived, after all this time,” he said, reaching out to trace the white branches of the halla horns outlined against the dark. He was taller than I remembered.

“Spirits help.”

He chuckled, and began to unpack his robes. “They do, don’t they? How is Sophiyel?”

“The same.”

There was a trough of water in the corner, its surface glazed with ice. I cast fire to melt it away and beckoned to him through rising steam.

“You’d better wash away the blood.”

****

We took the curved steps to the kitchens, snaking around the base of the rotunda. In the lee of the wind, but still submerged in snow. I was glad to see the kitchen fire still burned. Pies and fruits sat upon the table.

“Are those forbidden, or can I have one?”

I tossed him a pear. “Just one?”

“Just one. Even ravenous monsters such as myself need to learn discipline.”

****

I thought to show him my fresco before we approached the throne, and crossed the room diagonally, to the right hand door, away from the wine cellar. He went left, tweaking the stone beard of the dwarf on his way, and pushed open the door to the library. The old one.

He grinned over his shoulder, and called back to me. “I thought I remembered this was here.”

Reluctantly, I followed him through. “It’s infested with spiders. Do try to keep your robes clean. I want you at your best when you meet her.”

He ignored me and picked a book off the shelf, dusting its cover off with a careless stroke of his sleeve. I looked away, impatient, and watched a lizard scuttling in the corner, looking for insects.

“Ah, Groeke, my old friend. “Does this thing appear to you to be green?” Does she ever come down here? Can she read?” He sat down on the chair, getting even more covered in webs and tiny spiders, and looked at me with sharp eyes.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know.

“I think this throne will suffice. Are you ready?”

Judgement time. I found a place on the rug marginally less filthy and knelt at his feet.

****

Silence stretched out. After a minute, or perhaps an hour, something snapped. “Why did you do it?”

“You needed hope. I found it for you.”

I sprang to my feet, ignoring all convention. Too enraged to care. A shadowy dagger appeared in my hand, and I found myself holding it to his throat. His eyes, so similar, met mine.

The same thought in both our minds. _It’s not for you. It’s for the world._

I held the dagger steady. One sharp cut, and I would be free. But my hand did not move. In my head, a voice singing.

> _Swiftly do stars burn a path across the sky,_  
>  _Hast'ning to place one last kiss upon your eye._  
>  _Tenderly land enfolds you in slumber,_  
>  _Softening the rolling thunder._  
>  _Dagger now sheathed, bow no longer tense._  
>  _During this, your last hour, only silence._

His eyes flickered downwards, once, a silent tell, and I saw the second dagger aimed at my heart.

“I know she’d have to walk through hell for this. You can’t make me make her do it!”

The words were childish and I regretted them as soon as I spoke, although not the sentiment itself. Both daggers spun away, dissolving, releasing. I stared up blindly at the owls.

He sat me down and took my hands: calming, comforting once more.

“Can you let her?”

“I don’t know.”

****

_At this point the wall is scorched, as if runes have been repeatedly etched and then erased. In the right light, certain parts might suddenly reveal a shadow of their original meaning._

****

Memories get muddled, Inquisitor. You’re not the only one that’s seeking truth.

Solas


	7. Changelings charging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Waves of the ocean bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying,_   
>  _Waves, undulating waves, liquid, uneven, emulous waves,_   
>  _Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves,_   
>  _Where the great vessel sailing and tacking displaced the surface_   
> 
> 
>   
>  Fourth _sa'vunin_ , upper part

Inquisitor,

In peace, vigilance. But I do not find peace.

****

I am less certain than ever that writing this down is a good idea, but somehow I find I cannot now bear the idea of finishing the fresco without its hidden layer. There is a perfection in symmetry which calms me.

Yesterday I painted the second _sa’vunin_ , representing the formation of the Inquisition. Six hours in, I was working on the raised sword and heard the commotion in the hall. You had returned from Crestwood.

Covered in paint to my elbows, I was bare to the waist under my apron, neck aching, and my mind was anywhere but the present. I turned to look and saw you standing in the hall, being greeted by the Commander. You must have seen me move, because you immediately looked through into the rotunda and smiled at me.

You were exhausted, covered in mud and gore, and you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. So young, and so pure. I felt suddenly appalled by my lust and at the same time more in love with you than ever. I turned away and carried on painting, my mind and pulse racing.

It is a miracle that the sword is as good as it is.

****

Two hours later, I was shaping the heads of the wolves when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs from the library. You carried a sheaf of papers, and settled down on the couch to read them. Perhaps Leliana had briefed you not to interrupt me, because it was only when I stepped back to approve the finished effect a while later that you set the papers down on the couch and quietly left the room.

I had washed the paint off my arms and face and was just drying them when you returned, bearing a heavy tray laden with soup and bread, two mugs of ale. You had ridden all day, fought heaven knows what, and were looking after me? I felt touched in a way I still can’t find the words to describe.

I cleared off a table and lifted it over to the couch, and we sat down to our dinner. My skin felt chilled under my fresh tunic and your hair was damp above clean silver-buttoned robes. I was loath to break the companionable silence, felt I should, but somehow no words came.

“It’s beautiful, Solas,” you said eventually, looking at the wolves.

“Thank you, Inquisitor. How was Crestwood?”

“Less beautiful. One tragic tale atop another, and corpses everywhere. Actually I’d rather not think about it. I wondered if you might help me with a problem.” You smiled, and I was drowning all over again. _Anything,_ I thought. _Anything at all._ “If you’re not too tired, that is.”

****

It transpired that Bull’s Ben-Hassrath reports on Nevarra had suggested that there was a Venatori agent in Hunter Fell. The ruling Duke, Tythas Pentaghast, had connections to five women, possible lovers, and the Inquisition had gathered information to help determine which to target.

As a logical problem it was simple enough, and we had soon agreed with Leliana’s conclusions on the matter. But I have never been so sure that a Maker was laughing at me as I was last night. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so close to tears, I would have laughed too.

Do I need to spell it out? Perhaps I had better, because I certainly made sure to give no indication at the time. You sat beside me, almost within reach, and it was as much as I could do not to pull you into my arms and damn us both there and then. Surely no desire demon was ever as tempting as you are to me. Only the thought of Felassan, and before him Ser Michel, kept duty before love. They made their sacrifices, and I would continue to make mine.

****

You spread out three rolls of paper between us on the couch: two letters marked for Cullen and Leliana; a Ben-Hassrath report. “There are five of them: two humans, an elf, a dwarf and a Tal-Vashoth. A Mortalitasi, a dragon hunter, a bard, a smuggler and an apostate. We just have to work out which is which.”

“Clearly the duke is an open-minded man.” I sifted through memories: had I met him?

“This letter says that the apostate is not human, and this one that the mages are Orlesian and elven. So we have an Orlesian Mortalitasi, and an apostate elf like me.”

You smiled, and it hit me. “Just like you,” I echoed, biting back anger. Keep away from her, shadows!

“The Ben-Hassrath now say that the Fereldan is the Venatori agent. They know the Tal-Vashoth is not the bard, but is in a relationship with the smuggler, who isn’t the dwarf, so must be the Fereldan.”

“That means that the Tal-Vashoth is the dragon hunter, and the dwarf is the bard.”

“And Leliana is right: we should take out the smuggler. I’ll tell her tomorrow: she’s dealing with Painter tonight.”

“Painter?”

You laughed, then sobered. “Not you, Solas. He was the double agent who killed her agent in Crestwood. It didn’t take her long to find him after I’d given her the papers.”

_My entire life, reduced to scraps of paper on a couch._

****

With so many distorting mirrors around, it becomes hard to tell the real ones from the fakes. Sera really is, or was, Andruil. True grey, and turning Andrastian. But I do not think Vivienne is Sylaise.

I’ve been trying to convince you to see beyond your Dalish perspectives: they were misled like all the others. Dirthamen’s a convenient name, but he and Falon’Din were not born as brothers. In some reflections – Varric and Bartrand; Garahel and Isseya – they are siblings. In others – King Maric, Teyrn Loghain – they are not.

There are small flickers of hope. It is my nature to quash them in myself, but let them live in others. I heard from Varric about Sera telling you my head was crammed up a thousand years ago. _Lay off the grim fatalism and live a little_ , was what he wanted to say. And perhaps I shall, but not just yet. It is not easy to live in the moment when you feel entangled in threads.

So what of Andraste and Shartan? I watched you as they sang, post Haven’s fall, a heart around my own. They saw Andraste, and you thought of him. I remembered you in Redcliffe’s Chantry kneeling in prayer. Cassandra was surprised, but I saw where you looked. _Help me free the slaves,_ you whispered, and for once we were in tune.

“Even if we defeat Corypheus, eventually they’ll find a way to blame elves,” you told me.

I have felt that temptation too. Shartan’s dream of home brought the elves the Dales, the open sky, the never-ending road ahead. A future. But they once had so much more, and could have had again.

It is the sharpest of regrets. Had Andraste not shared her power, not trusted her friends, had they resisted envy, had she remembered her faith, not given in to despair or pride, not drank from sorrow’s well. It has always been a lot to ask.

****

I found myself staring at the tiny golden faces embroidered on the couch. Could I bear to remember your face that I might carve it later? Could I bear not to? You interrupted my reverie with a cough.

“Solas, would you like to come with me to the Dales? After we have made Ferelden safe, I want to turn my attention to Orlais. The Wardens there are all hearing a false Calling, a bluff from Corypheus. Hawke’s Warden ally wants us to meet him at a Tevinter tower in the Western Approach. It is a long journey, and I…”

You stopped, and a faint blush stained your cheeks. _Not stone yet._

“And you…?” I prompted, gently.

“I would welcome your company. I feel… safer… with you around.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. I would be happy to help. When do we leave?”

“Not for another week. I need to ensure that all is in order here first. Are you thinking to paint more of the fresco?”

“Yes, if there is time. I have two more panels in mind.”

“May I take a closer look?”

We stood by the wolves and counted triangles. Then you walked to where the _el’vhen’alas_ lay drying, dwarfed by its height, and moved your hands as if to stroke its face.

“What secrets lie beneath this one, Solas?”

“The third panel is for Redcliffe. Two strongholds: one dark and dim; the other lit with sun. In between, a dark serpentine figure, standing on a wheel of time.”

It was as much as I had ever explained to anyone before the act of painting.

“This part feels hotter.” You bent closer, and without thinking I reached to pull your wrist away from the wall. The Anchor flared in response and I could feel, through aura, flesh and veins, your pulse as a feverish throb.

And the chaos seeping in.

****

In a hundred blighted memories you turned to me in shock, whispering “Solas…?” Closer than you’d ever been, close enough to kiss. Soft, not stone.

In a thousand of those, I lost my head completely and dragged you into the Fade, pressing you back against the runes: kissing your lips with his mouth and caressing your curves with his hands.

In ten thousand more I fought him off and woke us up, and flew to your bedchamber. You smiled with joy and I crushed you in my arms: my own arms, my own heart at last.

In a million memories you cried out in the night, your beautiful body straining to hold, your mind and eyes glazed with pleasure we had let you take. We soared together and I found I did not mind the chains.

In a billion pieces I dashed against the rocks, neither knowing nor caring who I was, a rising tide that would drown the world for love. I did not think to wonder where you’d gone.

****

But order and sense prevailed. I prayed for strength and for once a miracle occurred: he gave me words.

“Don’t touch it, Inquisitor, it’s not ready yet. You’ll get plaster on your robes.”

I released your hand and stood back. Maybe you sensed the chaos under the veneer, because you turned to face me, eyes bright with love, and smiled.

“I look forward to it.”

“Good night, Inquisitor. Sleep well.”

****

I could taste your aura long after you had gone.

Solas

 


	8. Charging changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Is it perfume from a dress_   
>  _That makes me so digress?_   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Fourth _sa'vunin_ , lower panel

My friend,

I should have liked to join you in the Fade. I should have walked the battlements and seen the stars. I should have flown. I should have…

But I climbed the scaffold, lay under painter’s shroud, and swallowed salty death.

Veil waves sear my mind, dark runes forming. Calm, comfort, as the cold takes them away.

****

**Atrast tunsha. Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc.**

Atrast vala, Aeducan. Why weep for the thaigs you could not save? Let Orzammar be enough. That passage was lost; it had to be collapsed.

Atrast vala, Astyth. Though you had no tongue, he heard. Your sword sang for you; your valour served you well. You strengthen the Stone.

Atrast vala, Garen. They saw that you still hoped, and did not despair. You gave them purpose. Faith rewarded: your hope lives on.

Atrast vala, Hekkat. You did not stretch the Stone in vain. Look! A mighty queen stands tall. Your wisdom helped me carve.

Atrast vala, Zadol. You saw the secrets of the burnished steel. A thousand Darkspawn vanquished by your works. Their deaths were righteous.

****

_Nameless ones. You have forgotten, but I have not. Be patient, and purpose will return._

****

It once was formless, lost. A raging torment, bringing fire and death. It would have fought itself, if it had found a self to fight. And so they fed me dragon blood and chained me to the pain. She had loved me once, perhaps still did. I could not love myself, and hid.

The hiding made it worse. Dead whispers, and so cruel. Demons cannot change.

They tore into the heart, and were transformed.

****

_It set the darkspawn free, her ancient slaves: once bound, now climbing past._

_Corrupting stone, corrupted flesh, a blight so vast no Thaig could stand._

_A blight so fast it drowned the Land._

_And I held it in my hand:_

_The Orb the dwarves had died to build; the Stone their faithfulness had willed._

_And I was strong and I was skilled,_

_And so_ _I killed_

_And killed_

_And killed_

_I was chained and so I killed_

_Two hundred years I killed and killed_

 

_Each darkspawn and each dwarven death made both sides stronger; heated breath_

_Of brimstone filled my mouth. They stumbled north and wandered south_

_Through deep and blighted geometry: just a detail none would see._

_Tunnels falling, silenced screams, and always, always, always dreams._

 

_At last I triumphed, crossed the Veil, a scaly beast with mottled tail._

_A silent god that once was fair, that could not give in to despair,_

_That could not even pause to care about the slaughter everywhere._

_I bid them fly, I took them high, up to the surface and the sky._

_I could not find the time to cry._

_I had to move so others died and not the dwarves that had supplied_

_Their Amgeforn._

_Our beautiful Tevinter. Time to fall. They prayed “Dumat!” and I flew tall._

_Their hope turned sour as rotting milk._

 

_I burned the markets and the silk._

_Yet lost no more: I came alive in death. Not through the talons, blazing breath,_

_But in a Game a Mind could play: to shed my selves the fastest way._

_Each dark’s pawn was but a scale: a soul-less soul in Solas’ tail._

_I played both sides, so smart was I; that sometimes I forgot to die._

_But they died to forget._

****

**Vitae benefaria, manaveris Dracona**

Avanna, Aetius. No coward you, your courage bought them time. It was not folly falling through the fire. The world recovers faster by your act.

Avanna, Epictetus, little child. There is no need for you to be afraid. You had not yet begun to fear the shades. Hope on.

Avanna, Hrabanus, my faithful priest. It was not your fault destruction came. You knew me even unto death, and trusted me beyond the rising flames.

Avanna, Pomona. The orchards that you built remind me still of apples sweet; be sure they will rise from the ashes one day far hence.

Avanna, Seraphina. You brought true joy to many men and made enduring easier for your friends. That is true purpose there; you knew it too.

 

****

_An order rose, the Wardens grey. For ninety years I had held sway_

_Over my drear and dying land of dust and rot and mould and sand._

_And now I sensed them in my Mind: a vengeful force that turned me blind._

_For who was foe and who was friend and was this darkness now to end?_

_I dared not hope, for if I had, I surely would have turnéd mad._

_It took the fools one hundred years to travel through that vale of tears_

_I scorned the wisdom of their seers and garnered purpose from their fears:_

_The Nightmare fed and grew so fat that soon it rivalled old Dumat._

_The dragon died and rose again, until AT LAST the beast was slain:_

_The Battle of the Silent Plains._

_My Mind now freed from darkspawn horde, they scattered down to dwarven boards_

_And I could play the other game: trying to redeem my name._

 

****

Each blight’s the same, but different. At first it was just pawns, but the Order changed the rules. Sacrificing emissaries? Alphas? Ogres? Harder to do without giving the entire game away. A gambit’s fine, a piece _en prise_? I do not play to draw.

Zazikel, Toth, Andoral. Just names to you, perhaps. Or wicked foes. But they were, and are, my kin. As Silence said:

> _Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_  
>  _On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_  
>  _The First of My children, lost to Night._  
> 

This part you need to understand, my deer: dragons must be shared. They are duplicitous in all the meanings of that word. Take heart! Alas, those wicked eyes. But only they are strong enough to lead the horde. The Mind controls the Heart, and it must feel. The heartbeat is the Calling.

_It must be strong, it must be brave, to hate the dark enough to save._

_For if the Heart controls the Mind, then time itself may yet unwind._

 

****

**Ma ghilana mir din’an**

Felassan. Dear friend. Your honour and your kindness will live on. The slowest arrow sings the highest song. _Ma melava halani, ma ghilan._

Garahel. My friend. You saw the horror in the heroism and did it anyway. The griffons did not die in vain. You saved your sister. I could not ask for better company.

Liberator. You could not save her with a firewood bow. Half a world beats none at all. Think of the slaves now free, Shartan. Ten thousand swords not wrong to fight.

Lindiranae, wild and free. You came so close to besting me. In valour lies your golden throne, from silver knight you almost owned. Your sword will strike once more.

Urthemiel. No darkness is too dark to save. You too were beautiful once. _Ir abelas. Dareth shiral._

****

 

I stir and the wall is covered; just two lines remain. I think of you, and Razikale. It’s only then I weep.

Solas

 


	9. The Grey Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _With questionings, baffled, formless, feverish, with never-happy hearts_   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Fifth _sa’vunin_ , upper panel

Inquisitor,

I am a liar and a madman. I’ve been told it enough times you’d think I would realise it by now. You said you wouldn’t let me come with you to Halamshiral unless I’ve recovered enough to paint the Adamant _sa’vunin_ , so I have to lay all of the _el’vhen’alas_ today. I am just going to have to write out what happened since then because I can’t focus on anything else.

These memories are too raw but I can’t let them go. I am going to write them out and then forget. To the Void with them all.

****

Ferelden was secure, and we were heading west. I took the opportunity to look for Sophiyel in the usual place, meeting it twice. The spirit had not changed, and neither had my thoughts. Such deep regrets: it was a puzzle that I longed to solve. _What does Wisdom want?_ What did it lack to take it into Love? How could I take it there? It did not seek to be made real, it did not want to change.

I woke up and I gazed at Cole, asleep. Sophiyel could not hold me now that I had found my heart again. I came to realise it was not a problem I could solve myself, that it would be a question of timing. For both to learn, but not too fast. That part at least I understood.

It was a helpful distraction through the weeks and months that followed: the ancient paths, the history, the lore; the fighting, sweat and blood and gore. We crossed Orlais, gathering friends and foes: closing rifts and climbing cliffs; unlocking secrets. Making you as strong as I must have you be.

And all the time, Inquisitor, I teetered on the brink of love, yet could not fall too soon.

****

Adamant Fortress itself was what it always was: on the edge of nowhere, perched beside the Abyssal Rift. I had the usual flashbacks and distortion nausea: the last time I had come out here I had seen it both through Zazikel’s vision and that of a thousand darkspawn leached from the ground. It felt both bigger and smaller than it should have been. I was as furious with the Wardens’ idiocy as I ever had been, and felt my mask slipping constantly. Only your kindness in a hundred sweet ways saw me through: a smile; a potion tossed; soup kept warm.

I felt it strange not to _be_ the dragon. We hid behind pillars to dodge the raw heat of its breath, were blasted back by the thrust from its wings as it circled and swooped. I remembered the joy I had tasted from Garahel’s memories of soaring and flying on a griffon and reminded myself that not all Wardens – and not all dragons – were the same. Clarel was certainly no Garahel, but some spark of decency (or guilt) remained. She took the brunt of its attack, and then suddenly everything was collapsing around us. The only power that mattered was gravity.

I can still feel my terror as we fell. Cole was screaming, and I was trying to reach simultaneously for your hand and into the Fade for a pair of functional wings. For a moment I caught sight of your face: it was both intent and serene, as if we were flying not falling. And then we plummeted into the deepest hole of all, the Raw Fade itself. I landed on my feet.

****

The whole experience was truly surreal: somehow less and more real than walking the true Fade. A reality I had been shaping all my life and could not now change.

Fear made me focus: the group were looking to me for salvation and for once I could provide it. They were all in far worse state than me, and I briefly wondered what they would each take back, once we escaped.

I think the part I find strangest to grasp is the thought that you might have been there without me, or at least without Solas. I am glad that I do not need to be jealous of Dorian in that. This world has had its sufficiency of Tevinter magisters storming the gates of the Eternal City.

I wondered if you noted that the Nightmare focused on controlling the situation: on setting enough puzzles to mislead but nothing that would truly harm you. It gave an opportunity to return your stolen memories, and for you to strengthen us in turn with your gifts of hope. I watched you kneel at each shattered eluvian. You placed Chantry candles and improbable flowers in the midst of death and hell: unafraid and more beautiful than ever. I wanted to worship you, but forced my eyes away, and pulled in more demons instead.

When we came face to face with the Nightmare I watched you closely: what would you see? It was apparent that none of us could mould this part of the Fade directly, but it was still reacting to us all.

As we fought the avatar, our first conversation in Haven was sharp within my mind:

_“When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”_

_“You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins. Isn’t that dangerous?”_

_“I do set wards. And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to let and let live.”_

I doubt it was on your mind at the time: you have the gift to focus on what matters in the moment. Once out and back in Adamant, I continued to experience your radiance: in command, decisive, your voice a clarion call drowning out the carillon calling echoing from the minds all around me, and bringing back Silence.  

****

Cassandra rode on ahead, promising to send Bull back to meet us. We came back more slowly by road through Montsimmard and Verchiel. I took the opportunity to seek out Sophiyel again, as we passed close to Dirthavaren on our return. Perhaps it was a mistake: spirits cannot bear too much reality, and it left me even more exhausted and confused.

I was glad when you suggested that we divert through Emprise du Lion and check on the villagers and Inquisition soldiers there, rather than go through Halamshiral. I had spent too many days keeping my eyes off you as we rode, as we made camp, as you wished me goodnight, as I slunk into my tent. I had spent too many nights far too aware of your close and shining presence, building dim barriers around myself to obscure myself from you.

And I knew you knew this, and sorrowed, and it was breaking me. I prayed you would turn your love from me, and yet I feared we would both break into a thousand empty fragments if you did.

At least in the Emprise there would be stone, cold and sober; and I could fight.

****

It was late in the day when we found it. The sun was streaming through the trees, and you suggested we find a place to look out over the valley. All I wanted was to go back to the Inquisition camp on Drakon’s Rise and lie down, but you can see beauty in the most unlikely places. I didn’t want to deny you any pleasure you might have. We were all exhausted from clearing out the old Warden stronghold at Valeska’s Watch. Cole still bled from cuts to his arms, and Bull was even more morose than usual.

“I’d take a hot spring over any frozen view right now,” he said.

“I would rather not linger here,” I said, thinking of the red lyrium and shivering despite myself.

You persisted. “Solas, we activated that artefact you sensed, so the Veil should be stronger here now. If I can find a suitable overhang, I’m going to light some fire runes in the snow above, and then you can have your hot shower, Bull.”

“Now you’re talking, Boss,” he grinned, looking more cheerful than he had since he joined us.

I remembered what you had said about his decision to save his company at the Storm Coast, and suddenly felt sorry for him, and guilty for not feeling sorrier earlier. It was the right choice, of course, but I know better than most how hard such decisions can be, both at the time and after. I had shared a tent with him the night before – you always share with Cole when Cassandra isn’t with us, don’t you? I had slept and woken early as usual but knew his sleep had been uneasy. I had thought it kinder to leave him to his own thoughts. Now I wondered if distracting him might be better.

You found an overhang above the entrance to a natural tunnel within the rocks, set the fire runes, and settled at the top with Cole. I sat in the darkness of the tunnel and started to unwrap the bindings from my feet. The Iron Bull had already stripped off his armour and stood in the tepid snow melt as it trickled over the edge, too impatient to wait for it to steam in earnest.

As the water finally began to steam, Cole called down to him. “The Iron Bull, a woman in the last village wanted you to pick her up and take her clothes off.”

 _Not the distraction I had in mind_ , I thought, _but how typical of Cole’s literalist view of the world._

The warrior chuckled, and flexed his muscles. “Most people do.”

“In her mind, you were very big,” persisted Cole. Was that the sound of you stifling a giggle?

“Well, that's flattering,” replied Bull. He finished showering and gestured to me to take my turn.

I shrugged off my robes and stood under the flow, enjoying the contrast between the snow all around and the steaming water. The overhang hid me from you, but it still felt vulnerable to be undressed with you so near. Particularly given the tone of the conversation. I tried to stop myself wondering whether you were comparing me to a Qunari, or how you would look when you were showering, or how it would feel to kiss you under the hot water, or…  

I had to distract myself. “How do you feel, Iron Bull? Do you need a distraction to focus your mind?”

“Well, this area's low on dancing girls, sadly,” he replied. _This wasn’t helping._

“Solas likes dancing,” I heard Cole say to you. Before I could stop him, he continued: “He imagines you in a purple silk dress at Halamshiral, dancing with him in the snow. Melting.”

 _Damn them all._ I felt the blush start in the tips of my ears and spread down. I couldn’t see you or Cole but I heard the Tal-Vashoth chuckle as he sat nearby putting on his boots. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that it could have been worse. Sera would never have let me forget that, regardless of what else she did or did not remember.

“Cole, I think Solas would like you to stop,” you said, gently. How I longed for you then. _So kind_. I almost wished for Cole to carry on reading my thoughts that you would know for certain I had never forgotten our kiss and never wished to, but that would have been madness. Instead, somehow, gazing at the elven statues around us, I stumbled on a memory of playing chess with Sophiyel in the Fade. Without a board. I had thought to suggest to Bull that we play Diamondback once we were back at camp, but perhaps this would work even better.

Wrapping myself in a towelling cloth from my pack, I called out to him: “King's pawn to E4.”

“You're shitting me. We don't even have a board!”

“Too complicated for a savage Tal-Vashoth?”

He growled at me. “Smug little asshole. Pawn to E5.”

“Pawn to F4. King's Gambit.”

“Accepted. Pawn takes pawn. Give me a bit to get the pieces set in my head. Then we'll see what you've got.”

Sometimes the game is the only thing that works. But even after I had put on my robes, I was still thinking of you.

****

You let Cole mind the runes while you showered, and Bull and I, by tacit agreement, wandered off a short way. You are Dalish, and hence accustomed to a lack of privacy, but I wasn’t about to give in to where that temptation might lead. And so we found the camp.

Two dead elves, a Carta schematic, and some pages from a journal. Stupidly, I read it out loud:

“ _Mythal’enaste._ First Vellan lost; now this weather. Ril can’t stop shaking. No-one lays eyes on the Cradle of Sulevin for hundreds of years and now we’ll die for a story, after all.”

I had half a thought to burn the pages right there and then, but there was no way I would have got that past Bull. Trained spy as he was, he was already half-suspicious of me. And so, inevitably, the next time we set off from Skyhold, it was in search of the one legendary elven blade that I had hoped would never be reclaimed.

****

I think this may actually be helping. I had better drink some tea and carry on.

Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two meetings with Sophiyel that Solas mentioned are the last part of Chapter 3 and first part of Chapter 4 in Mind Heart.
> 
> With the Trespasser DLC just announced, I'm going to channel my excitement by attempting to finish this off before it's released. So expect approximately a chapter per day for the next week.


	10. Forte for Greyness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,_   
>  _And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,_   
>  _And in short, I was afraid._   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Fifth _sa’vunin_ , lower panel

Inquisitor,

I did try to warn you. Naturally I couldn’t tell you what memories it held for me: the desperation that I knew had fuelled the ritual; why the blade had remained broken; how I had grieved for the innocents massacred there and in Dirthavaren; the broken promises on all sides; my mourning at Lindiranae’s grave. That was the turning point when I first feared that nothing more could be done for the elves. There is nothing worse than a blade of purpose turned to mindless destruction.

I tried everything I could to dissuade you from going there. The trip to the Emprise had been troublesome, but at least it had held little to remind me of ancient agonies. This would be torture. And yet my pride would not let you go without me.

We entered the temple, the Cradle of Sulevin, and you gazed up at the trees weaving among the pillars. “So this is where the Sulevin Blade was lost.”

I could not resist one last attempt. “Lost or misused? There is a reason it was never reclaimed.”

You ignored me, and continued to explore. In what used to be the Starlight Chambers, and what in the Fade still is, you stopped and gestured at the grim hooded figure holding a bowl. “There’s an altar.”

“Let’s mess with it and see what happens,” said Bull. He examined the bowl, but it was empty.

 _Veilfire,_ I thought. Just then a poison spider crawled out of the shadows. Easy prey, but my mind was on the sword. I wondered how much would be wise to tell you. There are many times when my reputation as the quiet elven mage is useful: several of our companions suspect I am keeping something back. They little guess how much.

But of course you found the brazier, and a piece of my last mosaic behind a locked door, and the timeworn veilfire writing on the upper floor, telling of the failed attempts at the ritual and the vengeful spirits who would oppose those who sought the sword.

I suppose I could not truly love someone who was not so determined, so intelligent, so brave. And the Inquisition is worthy of the sword. But we could have done without it, and what it cost. I will not let it prevent me from being at your side in Halamshiral.

****

I hated fighting revenants even before, but at least they are one foe for which fire spells are most useful. Your magic burnt through the first one faster than I had expected.

You picked up the sword guard and turned to me. “The elves broke it, after all.”

“They performed a ritual they did not understand. It appears they paid the consequences for it. That corpse was possessed by a pride demon. I doubt it was alone.”

“There must be more altars,” you agreed, and set off, veilfire in hand.

The second revenant brought more corpses than the first, and I had to work hard to keep the barriers up around us.

“Those who live here must depend on themselves,” I said, as you collected the pommel.

I am not sure you were listening. You had already run up the steps to where stone egg carvings proclaimed the _Vir Tanadhal,_ and where Bull and Cole were fighting more spiders. We made our way round to the main chamber again, with its collapsed floor and overgrown fungi. I remembered dancing here, and brutal deaths, and began to feel nauseous. The Fade pressed in on me as if the Nightmare sought to escape through my body even while awake.

I feel sick again writing this, but I need to accept the pain for it to heal. I will continue.

The third altar. Possessed archers surrounded us. At some point Cole tripped and fell through the gap in the floor: I didn’t even hear his cry, too focused on keeping you safe. You span and danced, focusing flame around the revenant, and I drained myself dry casting abyss and barrier, veilstrike and mind blast. My heart pounded as I saw it pull you in again and again, its spikes perilously close to your face and arms. Bull did his best, but even he has little experience of such powerful undead, and we struggled to keep it off you.

You picked up the hilt, and I had no breath left to say anything. An incongruously beautiful butterfly flew between us, yet all I could see was blight mist descending in front of my eyes.

I was not sure I could manage a fourth encounter. Perhaps I should have said something, but I was too proud. And how would I have explained it anyway? We went down into the Sanctuary of the Dead. You lit the braziers and the dead began to walk again.

When we reached the final altar, I was shaking and half-blind, close to being physically sick. I had always associated this cursed blade with my own history, yet all I could think about was losing you. I had known each fight would be tougher than the last, and had saved my own firestorm to be sure of having it here. The revenant brought wave after wave of corpses: blast, abyss, strike, barrier; pounding in my head. I stood beside you and felt barriers wash over us both, then recklessly, sank deep into my mana.

I felt the fire rain down around us, and forgot it was my own. I forgot it was my turn to cast the barriers. I saw the revenant come closer, felt its foul breath on us, and saw it raise its huge sword. I leapt in front of you, determined to shield you from the blow. But I have spent too long healing you and had forgotten my true strength. It was seeking me, not you, and my world exploded in pain.

****

With my remaining mana I thrust my attention into the Fade and cursed my idiocy. This was not the way to win the game: dying at your feet. Outside, my body lay bleeding and useless. I could feel the pain building: intense, raw, pulling me back across. I thrust back harder. For a moment I was in Denerim feeling the agony of Urthemiel’s death throes once more. Then flashes of sound and fiery from the crypt. Half-blind on a galleon’s hull with ruined wings, searching madly for Hope.

Then your voice, blessed, disembodied, crying “Solas!” and what might have been a thread of magic, interrupted by a stray arrow.

The Fade kept spinning between memories: some mine, some Sulevin’s. I took what counted as a deep breath and focused on one memory I could trust to stay constant. I became the statue of Dirthamen from the abyss: crouched over, a sword through my chest, eternally bleeding. Around, everything was grey. I phased out into unconsciousness.

****

You must have somehow defeated the fourth revenant and picked up the blade. I imagine you saying, in another world: “The final piece of the sword. Perhaps Dagna can find a way to restore it.” But more likely you ran and cradled me.

Bull must have carried me out of there once you had staunched the bleeding. The next thing I remember is birdsong, and your voice, singing a song I had never heard before. Everything ached, my chest most of all, and I feared to open my eyes. I felt your hand clasp mine, and hung on.

****

The next voice was Cole’s. “He wants you to take him in the Fade,” he whispered to you.

 _No, you weren’t meant to hear that_ , I projected, urgently, but he had gone.

The world resolved into a dark grey cube. Somehow my mind always finds comfort in geometry. I was still crouching, unable to move, but no longer bleeding. The sword lay beside me, broken this time into four pieces, each an exact replica of Hessarian’s Sword of Mercy, covered in frost. I thought of snowflakes and fractal time, of dragonspace and deep roads. I was spinning backwards.

****

Later, I noticed that my cube had been joined by another one. The same volume had created them both. The other cube shimmered, luminous, silver, where mine was deathly grey. I watched, hypnotised, as lyrium crept up its side, forming tree branches that twined and counter-twined in the space. They increased in intensity until my eyes were blinded by a point of pure light at the centre. It expanded and widened, and then I saw you, serene, walking out of it. I was suddenly aware that I was naked, and that we were at sea, and I was just a pair of claws on a beach.

“Solas?” you said. Immediately, the claws disappeared, and I was safe.

****

I don’t know how you got me out of there, and I’m not sure I even want to know. The only bit I remember is being frozen and fully clothed and you holding me, singing, and everything melting. I can only hope that we were in the Fade at the time.

****

I have fragments of memory from the journey, but the first real memory after that is of waking up in your bed at Skyhold. I remember the softness of the coverlet, and drowning in your scent, and reaching out for you, but finding nothing.

At the window stood a figure outlined against the sun, and before my eyes adjusted to the light, it seemed the very shade of Ghilan’nain come to haunt me. I must have stirred, because the figure turned and walked back into the room.

It wasn’t Ghilan’nain. It wasn’t even you. It was the Enchanter.

“They always kill the servants first, my dear,” murmured Vivienne, as she laid out her skirts and sank into the chair placed beside the bed.

The needling brought me fully awake, as had no doubt been her intention. “Where is the Inquisitor? What have you done with her?”

“I have done nothing, apostate. It is your foolishness and failure to act that has brought her to this point.”

She pointed to the divan, where you lay, sleeping, your face pale and tear-stained, your clothes dishevelled under a Dalish fur, half-slipping, clutched.

“Look at her,” continued the Enchanter, merciless. “I’m sure you know exactly what you are doing, Solas, but a word of advice?”

“Oh, I look forward to this. Go ahead, Enchanter.”

“We leave for Halamshiral in a week. The Inquisitor should be beautiful, captivating, winning the heart of everyone present. And look at her. At what you have wrought. It should be obvious even to you that she wants you. Why deny her?”

“I am not worthy,” I ground out, unable to tear my eyes away from the divan.

“Then pretend,” hissed the Enchanter. “I am sure even an apostate elf such as you could manage to wear a mask for a short time.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not at all, darling. You clearly have an exceptional gift for the Fade. There must be something there you can use. Or would you rather see her waste away from grief? You could almost pass as handsome, in the right lighting and some decent clothes.”

Some flicker of understanding passed between us, and silently, I nodded. We disagree on many things, but neither of us is a fool.

Satisfied, the Enchanter left, tucking in the fur around you on the way. I sank back against the pillows, thinking hard. If Halamshiral was only a week away, I had been out cold for days. There was little time to waste.

It took but a few minutes to meditate on the subtle but important differences between silver and grey, and then I pushed through into the Fade.

****

The bedchamber was almost the same. I adjusted the time to tranquil twilight, settled my robes, and walked over to the divan. The persistent ache in my shoulder and chest subsided as the Fade washed it away. It worried me that you were sleeping even here. Conjuring up a spray of crystal grace, I laid it beside you in mute apology. I knelt as a knight at your side, and gently kissed your cheek just underneath the branching twigs of _vallaslin_.

Your eyes fluttered open, and I didn’t have to fake the catch in my voice as I whispered, “Inquisitor?” and drew back to smile down at you. This would be damnably easy.

“Solas?"

 _Vhenan._ I kept it off my lips: too sharp a betrayal. “I’m here, _lethallin_. Thank you for saving an old fool.”

You closed your eyes briefly, wincing. Hauling yourself upright, you tugged the fur tightly around yourself. “If there’s a fool here, it’s me. I have pushed you all too hard these last two months. You told me not to go to Sulevin, but I didn’t listen. And then you nearly died. Again.”

Of course. Redcliffe. It was not so hard to imagine that other me, dying alone amidst corruption. “I would die for you again, Inquisitor, if it were required. But I would rather live.”

I reached up and placed my hands on your shoulders, stroking the fur. “You have been more patient with me than I had any right to expect. I am yours, if you will have me.”

Hope flared in your eyes, a living elven light. It was too much. All thoughts of deception and self-denial fell away. I wanted you, and I could have you. For however short a time, I could simply be the mask, your Solas, and abandon everything behind it.

“As I am yours,” you whispered, tears of relief staining your cheeks.

I pulled you on to my lap, letting the fur fall where it would, and hugged you tightly. The Enchanter had been right: your spirit would have been ruinously vulnerable to possession by a despair demon outside Skyhold’s protections. There was thankfully no need to resort to memory erasure this time. I could feel your Fade-aura releasing and relaxing as I feathered my fingers through your hair and over the points of your ears.

We stayed like that for a while. Eventually, you lifted your head from my chest.

“Is it very painful?”

“My chest?”

“Yes. I don’t know if you know, but the revenant’s sword went right through you. I keep seeing it in my dreams. You hit the ground, and I couldn’t get to you at first. Eventually Cole got the corpses off me long enough for me to get the magic wrapped around your chest. You had lost so much blood, I was terrified you were gone.”

You shuddered, and I pulsed a steady surge of magic through your aura: _be at peace, I’m whole again._ I could not resist placing a kiss on top of your head.

“I will recover. Besides, don’t you remember I want to see you dancing at Halamshiral?”

“No, Solas! You need to rest. I have arranged that Dorian will come instead.”

I felt terrible jealousy, and used it to fuel a wolfish smile. “What do I need to do to prove to you that I am well enough to travel?”

Ten breathless Fade-kisses later, I had achieved a compromise. You would let me come if I had been well enough to paint the Adamant _sa’vunin_ on the fresco. And so, as soon as Vivienne had pronounced me well enough to leave your room, I came back here to paint. The Enchanter had proven a surprisingly useful ally, once we realised our agendas harmonized. I’ve been on my own so long, it’s difficult to get used to having the support of others.

****

 _Vhenan_. If you truly knew me, would your eyes still sparkle for me? I think not. And so, I must keep these memories too. I find I cannot bear to lose even a single thought of you.

Solas


	11. Of masques and foils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _O we can wait no longer, We too take ship O soul,_   
>  _Joyous we too launch out on trackless seas,_   
>  _Fearless for unknown shores on waves of ecstasy to sail,_   
>  _Amid the wafting winds, (thou pressing me to thee, I thee to me, O soul,)_   
> 
> 
>   
>  Sixth _sa'vunin_ , upper part

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan,

Perfect moments are so fleeting: exquisite pearls set in a brooch of pain. I know I will enjoy painting this _sa’vunin_ : the gold against azure; the rippling black and white; the many shades of grey.

That evening started well.

“I’m sorry about the purple dress,” you whispered, as I helped you into the carriage. I was looking forward to watching from the wings once more: a servant to my lady; shadowed wolf.

I haven’t spoken much about the Wolf. It’s easier to be a master of the Game by staying cold: calculating options and weighing costs. But when a position’s threatened, when the stakes are high – that’s when it bites.

I thought that this would be another lesson for you: that Josephine or Vivienne or even I might need to teach. Were you safer in the Fade with the fear demon? _Fen’Harel ma ghilana!_ We were wrong. You looked over your shoulder just in time to catch my look of helpless longing. I was sunk. It was too late to hide it with a smirk: I saw you knew how deep my ruin went. I used to be better at this, I thought.

But as you turned away, I hid a smile. _Hunt well, ‘ma Fen_.

****

I actually preferred you in uniform, ironically enough, reminiscent of the War that fuels it all. The scarlet cloth an echo of the blood that every second costs, with Orlesian blue and gold to set it off. Purple would have been a single note: desire. Instead you were a symphony. I wondered where the Conductor was.

I’d managed to keep balanced for a week: using recovery as a reason to keep us in the Fade, painting to keep you from me in the day. Not for a single moment could I forget the Rules: _at most two kisses._ I did not want to waste one on untruth – you should know me first. But I was running out of excuses, and still am. Where on earth to start?

And so it was a relief to be at Halamshiral, with more to distract me. Lurking in the shadows, I observed the minuets and allemandes. Servants coming and going, Briala to avoid, nobles and nibbles, knives in the back, a stolen kiss (not mine). High ceilings, silk drapes, silvered chandeliers. I felt at home. Delicious frilly cakes, and wine. Before Sulevin I had reviewed the players, and was prepared to whisper quiet nothings in your ear, should they be required. Within an hour I knew.

_It’s the ones that are white and lovely on the outside that you need to watch._

****

You almost walked right past me, that first time. In Haven and again in Halamshiral. I lounged against the gilded clock and watched my wolf. I think you caught my scent, or a glimmer from my helm: you turned.

I’d had a while by then to learn my lines, even if Victor Boyet would have scorned the metre. He was long gone, and tonight was for the present: you and me. The Empress was correct. We all desired to watch you dance. What I wanted above all was to preserve these moments: they would all be gone so soon.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.”

You too were in the mood for acting, since you forgot to blush. “Do you have any interest in dancing?”

“A great deal… although dancing with an elven apostate would win you few favours with the court.”

That part at least was no excuse: we both knew it would wreck my cover, and harm the Inquisition’s reputation. But we needed our bright pearl to shine, and so I strung you on:

“Perhaps once our business here is done?”

“You seem more comfortable with a grand Orlesian ball than I had expected.”

Had you but known it, that bit close. My mind flashed back to your flirting with the Duke: _And which one was the rightful ruler of Orlais? I keep getting them confused._ A puppy, to be jesting with a throne. A mongrel, to be toying with my heart. Forgive me, love: but you were born to rule, not flirt.

The wolf could have one snarl: “I have seen countless such displays in the Fade. The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change.”

It was sweet to fence with you, if only for display. It burned my veins that I could not do more: countless lovers disappeared into the gardens as I watched, and fuelled vicarious lusts in me. Every time you passed me by, the wolf arose. I fought him back. Neither noble nor servant nor active player, I could only watch and wait. _Think of the larger prize,_ I counselled, and passed the time by sipping wine and playing chess: this time with myself.

I had almost beaten myself again when we went to rout them out: the Venatori killers of Briala’s missing people. A Harlequin in white stalked the scented gardens, and we tracked it down. You are never as beautiful as when you have your prey in sight, and fighting helps me focus on the moment. But I saw the halla confused you: stone reminders of your far-off clan. Perhaps it was an opening, for some future date: I might explain just why they ended here, and why the Game is always for Orlais.

How closely does one ever really look at statues?

****

I am short of space. So, reluctant as I am to trust, I will repeat Josephine’s recommendation to me: that you should read up on the foundation of Orlais in the writings of Philliam. It takes one bard to know another; and yet it was clear that she did not suspect the real author in the quiet elven mage. O Ghilan’nain, Gilivhan, Jeshavis, Josephine… and while the music plays, we dance.

And of course it brought back memories to me: the counsel your advisors gave; the dancing and the deaths. The choice. I thrust it out of mind, remembering how recent Sulevin had been. You needed me for strength, not weakness.

I now know you did choose to save them all: Celene to rule, Gaspard and Briala in support; and Florianne to live. You’d hold them all at bay, make it work, as long as your own strength held. A merciful choice, and perhaps by not repeating history we might improve on it.

But at the time? I could not guess what awaited you at the end of the Winter Palace ball, or how you would resolve it. I had found no method of prediction, no statistical technique, nothing. The other players are predictable, but you? Completely new: and I was overawed. It did not lessen when I saw how easily you dealt with Briala: she saw your righteousness and not the claws.

****

The awe might have contributed, for I made two mistakes that night, both through pride, not helped by wine. The first was not to notice Morrigan until the very end; but more of that later.

The second was not warning Sophiyel to stay away sooner. I would have had time while you talked. I felt its presence; knew a rift could come. No-one would have noticed had I slipped into the Fade. But I was lost in watching you and Florianne. It was only when the rift began to suck that I remembered what I’d asked: _a promise. Join me in Halamshiral._

“Dispel!” I shouted, and we got them all. I have never been so fond of Vivienne.

You had one fewer pride demon to fight, among the other spirits saved, and one more ally cursing his own pride. I was terrified that the experience would have harmed Sophiyel, and scarcely waited to see you make your choice.

I had to test it, see if Wisdom stood. While you began the talks, I slipped away. The servants were all dead: I lay beneath a bed and went to sleep.

****

The test did not take long: Sophiyel had not fallen. Neither pride nor desire had taken it: if anything the greatest threat was rage at me, and it was too strong to fall to that so easily. I woke still thinking of its sage advice. _Go back and dance with her. You don’t have long._

I shook off the dust and made my way out of the servants’ quarters and into the gardens to think. Sophiyel was right, for this evening and beyond. If I chose my timing to dance with you just before we left the palace, it would prevent the situation developing beyond my control. Indeed its very brevity might make the memory sweeter for us both. For all my love of intrigue, I do not like to lie to those I love, nor hurt them.

My eye caught the flowers twining on the trellis. If only the war were over. How could I tell you?

I went inside in time to hear Celene, on cue: “Tonight we celebrate the arrival of peace.”

Vivienne flashed me a rare smile, her eyes flickering to you and back to me, and I bowed in return. You had triumphed over them all, new power behind the throne. But then I saw her in the shadows, gliding towards the balcony, shining in strength. Was I right? Quietly I followed. If she sought you it might reduce the time we had to spend without further efforts on my behalf.

****

She offered her services as liaison from Orlais to the Inquisition; so she must be the mage advisor to Celene that Leliana had mentioned in passing that had supplanted Vivienne. I had not heard her name, but thought _the world feared that she might return_ , and so I found, did I. She talked of obscure, forgotten and forbidden arts. You gave the only politic response:

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Morrigan.”

 _Ah yes._ I let her pass before I went to you: a graceful human as one might expect. She did not appear to recognise me, which helped. This was not the moment I wanted to feel old.

You were leaning over the balcony, staring at the rail. _Déjà vu_ once more, but from when? I shook the thought away and tried to see the evening through your eyes. I hoped you were enjoying the moment of peace, fleeting as they are. I knew Cullen had begun to marshal our group, so the time was short.

“I’m not surprised to find you out here. Thoughts?”

“I have a feeling this is only a temporary victory,” you said, frowning.

“There’s much, much more trouble ahead,” I agreed, glad to speak entire truth for once. I placed a hand on your back: a silent reassurance that I would be there to help. “For now, focus on what’s in front of you. Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

Stepping back, I bowed to you, hoping it was a correct style for this Age. It had been so long.

You took the hand I offered: “I’d love to,” and we danced.

I’m not sure either of us expected it to work so well: where had we each learned? I held you up close and swept you around: a slow and stately waltz. My eyes could not leave yours for a moment; nor yours mine. Our auras pulsed as one: true magic. The only thing that kept us from kissing was the knowledge that it would stop us dancing, and I knew you knew it too. Our silence filled with music.

It’s no good: I can’t describe it even using veilfire. _Ar lath ma, vhenan, ar lath ma, ma’arlath._ I promise you I’ll paint it someday if I can.

****

I rode out in a daze. My preconceptions about the Dalish were fading fast: if they could produce someone who could rule and dance and sing and fence like you, who needed cities?

By the time I got to the room I was to share with Cole I was barely awake. Two large beds in Blessed Age gilt: a luxury beyond anything I had at Skyhold. It had almost been too much: my chest and shoulder ached, my head a-spin. I fell asleep immediately, and sought succour with Sophiyel.

****

And now I am back at Skyhold. I must tell you soon, before she leads you astray. But how? I need to talk with Sophiyel once more. Was that it calling? I’ll blanket with _el'vhen'alas_ then head straight to the Fade.

Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is interwoven with Chapter 5 of Mind Heart, with its Chapter 6 before the next chapter here, and then the next chapter here interwoven with Chapter 7 there.


	12. Of fools and masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_   
>  _By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_   
>  _Till human voices wake us, and we drown._   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Sixth _sa'vunin_ , lower part

Solas,

For I am always only talking to myself. No-one will ever see these letters, no-one will ever know. It’s far too late to explain any of this without sounding like a complete and utter fool. And then who would believe me?

How many languages do I need to say this in? _It’s not all about you, you idiot._

But surely most of this mess _is_ about me: my choices, my faults and my pride. Those bloody Blights. The Conclave.

And I am nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing at all. Mundane, banal, _banal._ Not even half an elf.

****

The Inquisitor took me away, when she saw I had made no progress on the Halamshiral _sa’vunin_. We went to Suledin Keep, and dealt with Imshael. I thought of why some things were forbidden, and how people should not be.

She didn’t take me to Val Royeaux to deal with the liar Rainier. Perhaps because she saw how angry I was about that. How dare he abuse her trust?

And how dare I?

I’m here, but I’m damned if I’ll paint. You can lead the _Pride of Arlathan_ to water… I’ll just sit here pouring it away.

****

_At this point there is nothing on the wall. Then two circles, separated. Then two circles, touching.  
_

****

But I came back to you, Inquisitor. Maybe that’s something.

This time you took me back to the Exalted Plains. We rescued the soldiers from Crow Fort and I raged. Each generation’s messes pettier than the last. Although I suppose that can be read in two ways too.

_It’s not all about you, you idiot._

We walked down back to Enavuris. The corpses were gone, picked clean by crows I assume. You walked with Rainier; I with Cole: a tetrarchy of grieving. I stood there and looked at the Wolf, and told myself to think.

And yet the first thing that I thought was this: _it’s ok to feel_.

****

You went off in search of _Hanal’ghilan_ and I blocked the implications out. So what if the mythical Dalish halla really _did_ exist? If not someone’s idea of a joke: just paint. I assume you thought the exercise would do Rainier some good.

Cole sat with me for a time. Did I _want_ to remember Sophiyel? That was surely the question.

I found I did, and might have looked into his mind, but then he spoke.

“Bright and brilliant, he wanders the ways, walking unwaking, searching for wisdom…”

So they had met after all. I hadn’t been sure. I had wanted them to know each other, might I have whispered in my sleep? The temptation to know it all returned, but with some effort thrust the thought away.

“I do not need you to do that, Cole.”

_It’s not all about you, you idiot. Let the boy have his own thoughts in private; he’s not a spirit here._

“Your friend wanted you to be happy, even though she knew you wouldn’t be.”

It made some sense.

I accepted his compassion at the time, allowing him the peace of reading my mind, reminding me of what the dwarves – and elves – had lost, and how Sophiyel had helped me see that for myself.

****

I had more time to think about it on the journey back to Skyhold, and that helped too.

I’ve told you subtleties matter. Cole must have met Sophiyel, after I had left it – _her –_ in the Fade after Halamshiral. I knew I had been reckless, not entirely conscious in my dreams: obsessed with you, our dancing, what might have been, what might still be. I vaguely remembered crying, and Sophiyel waking me up. What had happened?

I knew they must have met, knew Cole had seen her as more than a spirit. I must have left her balanced on the edge, my tears a tipping point. Or it might have been relief to be with Cole, with someone young and new, less broken by the world. When I think of how you make me feel, I can well imagine that.

It was four-fold agony once more. Knowing that they might have been so close to getting it right, that I had been so close to getting it right, and yet that they had still got it wrong and so had I.

I can still feel the ripples of that first thought as it fell into the water.

A four-fold thought, a square, and the ripples smoothing into circles.

Why had I not thought of it before? Perhaps there was some growing still to do.

****

Last night, I went to Blackwall, and apologised. That was right; although the anger had been too. The ripples from Sophiyel’s choice were smoothing out again.

And now? I might be ready to remember her once more. Suppose Cole had found a question that could have made her real. She could have been here right now, learning how to learn. In time we could have talked like this:

“Why did you want to do it, Sophiyel?”

“I remembered the Nightmare. I wanted to help you, the only ways I could.”

“By going to the Void?”

“And weakening the Nightmare, yes. It bought you more time to be with her, and let you see that she could accept you too. I’m glad they stopped you killing the mages; I had to trust they would.”

“ _Ma serannas, lethallin._ And you also wanted to remind me of Falon’Din?”

“Yes. You are uncannily alike, you know.”

The mistakes still hurt, but there’s little time for guilt. I won’t forget. I will endure. I’ll try to teach.

****

On the way to the Hissing Wastes, I was thinking about Cole, and remembering what happened the week before we left. He’d been upset and wanted me to bind him.

“Helping makes me who I am. I help the hurting. That is what I do, all I do, am, me!”

“And if binding you erases your mind? Your consciousness?”

He’d looked at you. “You wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people. I don’t want to hurt innocent people again.”

“There has to be some middle ground between “do nothing” and “bind Cole with blood magic”,” you’d replied.

I’d talked about the amulets used by Rivaini seers to protect spirits they summoned from rival mages. Amulets of the unbound. You’d sourced one fast. He agreed to try it but it didn’t work; and the failure made him terrified.

He’d stormed across the room. “I don’t matter. Just lock away the parts of me that someone else could knot together to make me follow.”

I’d felt so sad for him, so tired and so old. Once I’d helped him find the pain, Varric turned to me.

“All right, I get it. You like spirits. But he came into this world to be a person. Let him be one.”

“This is not some fanciful story, child of the Stone. We cannot change our nature by wishing.”

“You don’t think?”

I’d looked away. Truly there was no right answer.

****

 _They’d killed me and I had to kill them back._ But it wasn’t me, it was someone they forgot in prison. I came through to help, and I couldn’t, so I became him. Mortals don’t just forgive someone killing them, though spirits can. A spirit does not work through emotions, it embodies them.

But if you make yourself real, you change. You get hurt, and heal. Compassion’s very fragile, so it quickly changes nature. The only way to preserve it is to keep feeling others’ pain, and to take it from them.

Something like the Nightmare in the deeps.

On the other hand, _you want revenge?_ Firing from an empty quiver doesn’t help. You both need to remember.

You said Cole told you: “He writes words that aren’t real, but they are for him, in a quiet place whose stone shape shakes the ground.” You’d taken him for drinks in Val Royeaux, a fine Ghislain white to start. He’d chuckled. He was laughing at himself. _Fen’Harel mad and giggling in glee._

I touched my jawbone, memory of him. I’d seen them both.

_You watch me walk into darkness over and over, and you always worry. Thank you._

****

We returned from the Hissing Wastes last night. A dark place that brought purpose to us all. Hunting in the moonlight for a Paragon’s tomb or a tomb of Fen'Harel? You know the tale by now, and I know you’ll remember it.

_A father taken by Time, a brother dead by my own hand. With this work behold my grief, in Stone and shifting sand._

Bull and I played chess and you taught Cole that being human meant one could be wrong. Could grieve. Could make mistakes. I looked at you and struggled with my pride. Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps it was all right that you not know. Perhaps it was enough to make you happy.

I realised Love had healed me once again. _I do matter._

****

And so.

Two tasks remain, two kisses. To turn desire to purpose, and to swallow pride.

Two dragons yet to face.

I’ve seen the ritual often fail. Can we bear it? I believe he found you for me, so I have to try. But I must remember: _it’s not about me, it’s all about you_. _It’s not for you, it’s for the world._

And counting bones – or stones – might help.

****

How many languages do you know to say this in? _Ar lath ma, vhenan._ I’ll climb and watch the dawn.

Even though I am not worthy.

Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is interwoven with Chapter 7 of Mind Heart, the first part of Earth Mind. The last part of Chapter 7 follows on from here, with Solas watching the dawn.


	13. Circling the squares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And lo, thou gently masterest the orbs,_  
>  _Thou matest Time, smilest content at Death,_  
>  _And fillest, swellest full the vastnesses of Space._  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Seventh _sa'vunin_ , upper part

_Vhenan_ ,

_Vhenan, vhenan, vhenan._

Relief at last to say it and to see you smile. One of us should be finding joy in this, if not us both. Yet however wrong it is, it feels so right.

I made it truthful as a prayer: a promise I would serve you.

And so I shall, for I will teach the roads that are not to be taken. For we never had long in this world. Fen’Harel eats the seconds and they bleed. Blood falls into the ocean and I fish.

Before the second kiss I’ll tell you that. I’ll find some way to do it. I’ll make it plain and say – you need to walk _this_ path, the way to glory. I’ll tell you why and what rewards await you. You’ve seen the Nightmare, seen me die, you love the world: we’ll get through it. Solasan is also a Temple of Wisdom, and it found you worthy.

I now know that it’s not finding the words: it won’t matter if I stumble. You’ll wait for me, kind and patient. Prose is fine, so’s poetry.

I could take you to a statue of the Wolf, and say: this is who I am, please love me.

Or point at Cole: _do you know who he reminds me of?_

Or talk of Varric’s bow, or Blackwall’s lying, Cullen’s nightmares, the choices of The Iron Bull. I could even look at Dorian and say: he’s right to hate Tevinter; this is why.

We’d talk right through the night and through the daytime. Maybe in the Fade; it wouldn’t matter.

Both Falon’Din and Dirthamen could be made happy. And you’d be our Queen. Would save the world again.

_And here’s the path to do it._

****

So after everything, I did enjoy painting that _sa’vunin_ of Halamshiral. The fresco in and of itself should be the point: and not the artist.

You came to watch me paint, admiring what? The colours: ochre-gilt and gold; blue and grey and white and black? The circles, triangles and squares? The painting or the painter?

I didn’t feel exposed this time: as if my lusts were all on view, my flesh and sweat and muscles. I didn’t mind you watching me. I smiled at you while painting, and sat atop the ladder to eat lunch and talk. _Emma vhenan_. I would make it real.

“Why do you like painting, Solas?”

“It’s feeling liquid silk of pigments, smelling lime. The race against the clock before it dries. Excitement when you find the perfect shape, the ideal contrast.”

“You sound like a poet.”

“It’s like dancing. You just need to get the rhythm and the muse.”

“Do you have a favourite colour, favourite shape?”

 _Apart from yours?_ “Not really: they all matter. They all have meanings, stories, whispered voices.”

“But they need to be together for them to sing?”

“That’s right, _vhenan_.”

_Yes, I can tell you._

****

And as I worked, I thought of games and thrones, of powers and dominions. Of the mage that holds the magic and the Templar who patrols him. Of Celene and of Briala and of what they all reflected.

Of Sophiyel (blue) and Cole.

I painted whitest Love and blackest Envy: Mythal / Fen’Harel, and thought of them each turning. Of double daggers spinning, and pawns and people dancing. Of dwarven ruins and the dragon’s breath; even the salty taste of death could be perfected.

I pictured grey realities and the golden gleam of knowing. Such joy to love you.

You seemed a miracle again: how did you ever love me? To walk so freely through my tortured binaries: so real, so pure, so loving. A triple thread.

****

I looked back at the fresco: at each _sa’vunin_ finished. Five blights, five panels. Lots of blacks and reds. Even black has shades and gritty textures. The reds of anger, rage, command: a fire that is burning.

Gods do not die gracefully, but Graces can bear gods.

 _In your heart shall burn_ , I thought. I can endure your anger, if I must. The risk is mine to take, and I will do it.

It wouldn’t be the first: Mythal was angry. Betrayed and hurt and lost, and seeking vengeance. Yet still caring enough to be a mother and a lover through the years.

Ghilan’nain was wise but proud. She saw the path to follow, and endured it. Dying, she protects me still: a slave and bard could not be ruler, and yet could be.

Andruil had forgotten. I’m your ex, I thought, but also still your brother. _Drop ‘em and rebuild the empire. Phwoar._ I grinned. Even now she sought to challenge me, to help me grow. To turn my past to future and to help me call her Sera.

And what of fair Andraste? There I smiled, and painted Celene’s halo. Multi-layered. The final piece of this most beautiful _sa’vunin_. Despair at first, and death, but rising skyward. To make a bride…

****

But there I paused a moment, golden-blinded.

Something not quite right.

I looked down at my hands, and they were gilded. I thought again of Tyrdda. Had I truly come full circle?

_Thelm Gold-Handed, fingers greasy, jeweled rings with glitter shone._

_Be my bride and cross the Waking, eat the gilded city’s fill._

_Fire flares as Thelm Gold-Handed, honey-tongued, repeats his lies._

And Cole, saying: “How do I put honey in Leliana’s wine without her noticing?”

I looked at Celene and shivered.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, after some minutes.

“No, _vhenan_. It’s perfect.”

_That’s the problem._

****

I washed and we ate dinner. Then you told me our next move – the Arbor Wilds – and went to pack.

We were to leave at once. You said you would be taking me, and Morrigan. You didn’t say who else.

And so we reached the Arbor Wilds, the southern forest. It struck me that it mirrored Par Vollen, far in the north. You spoke with Morrigan of a place of worship out of elven legend. She said there was a Temple of Mythal. I didn’t know. Somehow they must have kept the mortal folk away, or I’d have seen it. It surely can’t be dwarven.

“I’m confident your Majesty can weather any storm,” said Josephine to the Empress.

And I felt certain too.

“We are privileged to witness the fulfilment of the Inquisition’s purpose,” said Celene, softly descending, and you told her your place was with your soldiers. Sera grinned: _that told her_.

You spoke to Josephine: “Are you sure you don’t want to grab a sword and wade in?”

She sighed and smiled, “I shall remain where I’m of some use, your Worship, if it’s all the same. Good luck.”

And somehow I remembered Sophiyel.

****

You had spoken truth about the soldiers: you showed yourself to them before we left. I worried that the wood would not survive the battle’s raging: it was a place of beauty, fragrant, fair.

“Listen to how close the fighting’s gotten!” said Cassandra. “It will be worse ahead.”

“If the soldiers aren’t careful with their fires, they’ll do Corypheus’ work for him,” I said.

“This place is rubbish. What are we doing?”

Sera was already frightened, and Morrigan didn’t help her. “Do you sense the magic crackling? Something more powerful than the red templars stirs.”

The army camp was as they always are: a mix of nerves and purpose. You found a soldier praying to a makeshift shrine: Andraste holding up the sun. In front, a cup, a candle and a platter.

“As the sun renews itself, so must the faithful renew their love of the Maker,” he said, quoting the Chant. “Your penance shall be a joy, serving Him with a heart of love unbound. Your struggle shall be a gift, for it redeems you in His sight.”

You smiled at him, completing the verse. “Maker, let me be a worthy servant, that you might take me to your side.”

“My thanks, your Worship,” he replied. “Andraste must hear you. I was a pilgrim at Haven. I saw the wreckage and how you emerged to lead us. If the Maker bids me serve you then it will be done.”

And then, over his head, you looked at me, daring me to wonder how you knew the Chant of Light. Were you losing your Dalish faith in the Creators after all?

I kept my face a blank, remembering my cover. Why should this Solas care about that verse? Did you believe it? See the meanings? I suppressed a shudder. I was open to new ideas, but did not trust the Maker. Would this create a barrier between us?

At first I reflected on the third line of the verse. The Dalish had twisted Fen’Harel: _Dread Wolf_ replaced the wolf of noble struggle. And _Dread Wolf take you_ is a curse, no doubt. While with you I might forget my demons, but they’re always with me. I felt myself _banal_ : cold and rejected. A shadow of your sun, and of myself.

I dared not think that you knew of that twisting: that once the wolf was fair. There was little in this world that I had seen that now gave a hint of what the wolf once was, although the numerous statues and their size should have suggested its importance. Perhaps you really could turn time around and keep your memories, and that was how you knew the Chant of Light.

But now? My mind sticks on just one phrase: _a heart of love unbound_. Are you turning from me?

****

The woods were filled with arbor blessing, sunlit glades and bluebirds singing. And also Venatori fighting Orlesian knights; gruesome behemoths and red templar horrors. I felt sickened. Each horror once a mortal, I could feel the sounds of screaming. It felt no shame to end each demon’s pain.

Yet as we fought through ancient woods, I also thought of her: my dragon-lady-mother. What might her old temple hide? Would it give me answers? Would it give me questions?

Would it be whole or ruined?

I thought of our small party and who else you might have brought. Would it help Sera remember? Dorian see the world through different eyes, turn learning into action? Cassandra see the truths behind all faiths? Or Varric write his epic poem at last?

I thought of you. What might it look like seen through “Dalish” eyes? Nostalgia for elven glory or a ruin filled with ghosts? A place to archive and curate, reclaim, repurpose? Or to cherish?

Did it have echoes in that farther world? For you look Dalish, but you had no memories. I guessed what that might mean, but did it help me? No wonder we went to Haven in the Fade: where else was there?

I had so many questions. Could you even tell me of your world? Or were you, like me, another shadow? I sought the answers and I seek them still: a beating of my heart, another Calling.

But there were things that I knew for sure: you chose to be that Dalish girl. To wear the _vallaslin_ , to slip across a veil a small, kind thing, and to be mine. To wait for me and not to turn to others. To love me though I turned in pain and left you. _Forgive me, for you know not what I do._

Sweet mystery. Even though I sigh with sadness, dreaming that great temple’s secrets, I can taste your lips, still touch your beauty. The rose and honeysuckle, the tangled thorns. One more kiss.

I thought: _I’ll find a way to tell you._

Solas


	14. Squaring the circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Do I dare_   
>  _Disturb the universe?_   
>  _In a minute there is time_   
>  _For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Seventh _sa'vunin_ , lower part

_Vhenan_ ,

I joined the Inquisition to save the world. Regardless of who “my people” are, this was the best way to help them. We had spoken after Halamshiral about the fact that motivation is where great things happen. You’d said that not many people knew who they were the way I did, and I’d agreed.

I had appreciated the comment: few in this world could see me, rather than the body I wore. I felt you saw behind the mask, felt proud that you still loved me. You knew we were both Dreamers, and had watched me painting. You’d seen and kissed me in the Fade, brought me back from close to death, had listened to my stories. Dirthamen had surely never had a better listener.

And yet, what _did_ you see in me? An elvhen man of ancient Arlathan; a spirit-haunted body?

I was no closer to understanding that as we entered the Temple of Mythal.

****

On the way through the wilds, we’d passed a mighty waterfall. Fen’Harel loomed above, larger than the Wolf near Enavuris. We picked off marksmen and battled Grey Wardens, the last of those enslaved from Adamant. It felt, and was, a world away. Proud stone harts, bright-plumaged birds of paradise, fresh water everywhere: wholly uncorrupted, until now. And then we checked the corpses.

“Elves!” Cassandra shouted. Then she frowned: “But where did they come from?”

“Who were those elves? They didn’t look Dalish.” I caught you looking sideways at me.

“It seems this temple of Mythal is not deserted after all,” said Morrigan.

It should not have shocked me, but it did. They must have had some way to keep the Temple safe from mortals. Shadow sentinels: as if the tales of elvhen Crows were more than just a story from the past, lost elven glory. A missing tribe. They span and danced, attacking us; we had no choice to save them. We fought our way through sunlit day and through the ruined outer Temple complex.

It would have been enormous, greater than Sulevin by far, larger than Din’an Hanin. We found a giant winged statue of Mythal, near clumps of felandaris; two harts stood guarding. Old veilfire writing we could not translate. More stone wolves, stone owls, stone harts and archers: I’d never seen so many. Great trees and ferns and moss and rippling water. You forged ahead, under a line of arches, and then I saw the entrance.

Was there a central building still extant? Behind the four stone harts, behind the dragons and the wolves – a mighty pair of doors stood open. We cleared the last red templars and were through. A corridor of stone, then out into the open. Greeted by a swirling mass of birds croaking their warnings.

But you know all this: you know we crept up to the edge and heard Corypheus declare the sentinels would not keep him from the Well of Sorrows. You saw the dragon statues’ magic slay Corypheus; felt the blast; saw him rise again, black and blighted; heard him call the lyrium dragon.

You know we ran across the bridge and closed the mighty doors on it: my shoulder still aches from the effort. The scorching breath licked through the doors, and hurled us back, before the magic sealed them. So was she still alive? And where? And who maintained this Temple?

****

Morrigan had led us here, but now she seemed uncertain, disclaiming knowledge of the Well of Sorrows. I thought she lied, implied as much: _confidence can carry one only so far, it seems._ You were angry and disturbed, and so was I. You wondered openly how Corypheus reincarnated, if even Wardens could not kill him. I sorrowed quietly for the Temple and for him, and wondered what his goal was. He seemed completely mad, and yet still rational. I thought of Falon’Din and owls and of Corypheus’ feathered pauldrons. It seemed an age since Sophiyel and I had joked about such things.

****

Corypheus apart, my mind was racing. I was in awe: I never dreamed that such a Temple stood. I have no space to sing of all its praises: memory and paint must do that work.

We came to the pillars, first of the rituals. I translated a part: _Atish’all Vir’Abelasan_ : enter the path of the well of sorrows. I had thought it lost like so much else. Sera was shaking, telling us all again that rituals were bad. I had to convince you of the need: I knew that if the sentinels still lived they would expect us to have honoured them, and I did not wish to slaughter more. Seeing you as _shemlen,_ yet your righteousness would sway them. And even Mythal’s vallaslin tattooed in ink might be of service here.

“It is where they paid fealty to the gods. I have seen it. In the Fade. Only the reverent were permitted to touch this ground, and only in solemn contemplation,” I said, without thinking.

 _Hold on, how did I know that?_ It was as if some lost memories were returning, whispers from the City in the Fade. Something strange was going on. Morrigan was speaking but I ignored her.

“Silence has reigned here for time beyond memory,” I continued, unheeding, compelled to speak.

Sharp flashes of that earlier time shot through me, as if Mythal were jesting with my brain. I experienced a rage that felt like mighty thunder, a fractal lightning spiking me with pain. Strange voices singing at the edge of hearing, no heartbeat but a tingling refrain.

It made me sharper than I should have been with Morrigan. Though the fool witch did deserve it.

****

You chose to follow the rituals. The first was themed around Fen’Harel: four seated wolves, two pillars, pairs of gates and dragons. A lever to pull the gates; frescoes of the war around us.

The second around three archers, lying behind a brass mosaic of Sylaise. Another one of June mirrored her across the courtyard. We all were silent: for once Morrigan had no cheap tale to tell. Was this path yet to happen? The third ritual lay behind him: around five owls: four small, one great. Behind the ritual path one more mosaic: June picked out in silver, bronze and gold. The path led on to a matching set of squares, around four small and one large hart, and behind? A mosaic burnt and blackened. Hard to figure out, but I knew it was Sylaise.

I remembered Felassan’s tale of an elven princess killed by a serpent’s bite. At the funeral a noble fell in love with a lady, but the Rules meant he could not court her. He got no help from Mythal, Andruil or Dirthamen. But Fen’Harel told him to kill the other daughter, if he wished to see his lady. So how could June ever have married Sylaise?

As you circled round the squares, I tried to square the circle.

Our company at Skyhold felt complete: each person a reflection of the old Creators. I told myself to feel and think. Which of them did I feel closest to? I concluded it was Blackwall: the man who hid his lying under frescoes. At first I had felt more like Bull: abandoning my abyssal purpose to look out for my kinsfolk. But love had changed me once again. I now felt like a craftsman: or a smith creating legends. Shaping you, and letting you re-shape me. And that was June.

So who did Blackwall love forlornly? Josephine. And so I knew I’d got it wrong again. Josephine’s not now a bard, but sweet Sylaise reflected. Beside the hearth, of course! How had I not seen it?

 _You forgot yourself,_ the voices whispered, silent chorus. _You’re safe, for we remembered._

****

I sat down on a log to think, unseen by all the women. You circled on.

We’d met Blackwall by a lake: fishing for men to save. _You saved yourselves,_ he told them, and I thought of all the souls I’d comforted in death. My fishing craft in the abyss of nightmares. And of the Dalish, thanking June for the gifts he’d given.

But yet, I had been Dirthamen the spy, like Iron Bull: caring for his charges. Had I been Falon’Din as well, or was that coming? Or was he always lost? I remembered snatches overheard while painting: of Dorian the scholar looking to restore Tevinter’s glory. Something like Corypheus once was, still lost in books not action? He’d said: _I wanted to see you make flowers bloom with your song, just once._ The thunderous rage that muttered at my senses I took to be a sign of Elgar’nan.

A four-fold thought again. So how many of them was I, and what had happened?

Cassandra as Mythal, the fierce protector: supporting Cullen in attempts to kick the habit. Was he really Elgar’nan? Sera as Andruil asking questions, in the attic with the birds and Leliana/Ghilan’nain.

It just left Cole and Vivienne, and me and Varric. And Morrigan, of course.

You’d said that Vivienne had sought in vain to bring her Bastian back to life: the snowy wyvern’s heart had not sufficed. You had been mystified; why had she not said sooner? You would have shared her pain.

I thought of Varric carrying his crossbow. A storyteller telling every tale but that.

The need for Silence.

****

The rituals complete, I still sat there, silent, wondering: if I were walking June’s path, would this have been a wedding chamber? I turned around to find Cassandra glaring at me, fierce-eyed, strong.

“Soldiers are dying outside, Solas.” She grabbed my arm and marched me on.

****

I was still thinking of Eluvia, the sky-sent bride, as we went through the Mythal-blazoned doors to go inside. We spoke to Sorrow and then we trespassers allied with the Sentinels. I was relieved; Sera looked sad. We sped through all the rest: it seemed untouched by time. Cassandra dismissed it all as nonsense. I longed to tell her it was all about Love, and simply said that we could ask our hosts.

But one room caught my attention more than most: mosaics of Fen’Harel, of Elgar’nan outlined in bronze, Dirthamen in silver flanked by mighty owls with mirrors. And Ghilan’nain. I read the texts and shivered. You copied veilfire runes at breakneck speed. The last room was Sylaise as bride: flanked by two harts. I felt both joy and wrenching loss. I wondered if you guessed what pain you’d cause by choosing me and not another. Ought I to give you up? The tome-laden guide beside us: who was she? So many, many questions.

The final chamber, then we were outside. _Mythal endures. Andraste guide us. What’s inside the Well? Wisdom. The kind of wisdom that can scour a world. This world needs scouring.  
_

We pressed on through and took out Samson; met Abelas again beside the Well, her ancient servant clad in grey and bronze. Two memories stand out for me among a cast of thousands.

****

**The willpower of the One who Sorrows**

“Anything is possible,” he said, when asked if Mythal might still exist. _Until you look._

And then: “The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder. She was slain, if a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple. Yet the Vir’Abelasan remains. As do we. That is something.”

I told him: “There is a place for you, _lethallin_ … if you seek it. There are other places, other duties, Elvhen such as I. _Malas amelin na halam,_ Abelas.” _Your time of duty’s over._

For I had seen the mosaic tiles of Fen’Harel. He nodded, and walked off: another raven. I looked straight at You and said his name meant sorrow. I turned to you and said I hoped he found another name.

****

**The power of the Well of Sorrows**

I said: this is not a place to stir up old stories. Do not ask me again to drink. Morrigan is a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast, not to be trusted. I thought: _A golden sun._

Morrigan said: I shall be your sword. _Promising to be gentle? Hard to trust._

I said: She is right about only one thing. We should take the power which lies in that Well.

****

And now my mind is filled with swirling shapes and wheels of time, a Calendar. Our magic glyphs are flat. Nine points make a square: three threes. But eight points make a cube: the People went in two by two by two. To build a cube from eight points you also need twelve edges. And then an outsider, real, to see the cube entire.

A trespasser, perhaps, who needs to be forgiven? But how’s the one that’s taken from the nine to get to be the one that’s added to the twelve? For the first is but a point, of no dimensions. And the second is a complicated mess.

In faded death you offered me an answer, though I failed to comprehend it at the time. If you take a grey cube, filled right up with volume – perhaps magic multiplied by time – then a paradox will help you. Using sets created by the o/void, two cubes can be created by just one. Or: a cube and any shape, should you prefer. It could even be two spheres, or twenty million. Stellated octahedra.

I think perhaps you’re saying this to me: alone, you cannot square the circle. Rebel and we will change the rules together. Be as nothing, and I will cube the spheres.

So this time the painting will be meditation; each point, each curve, each shape will sing. To take the nine to eight and be made real. Incarnation making me as nothing, to build me whole and take me to your world: the lyrium flowing of magic rewinding the wolf.

O sweetest kiss! That I might love a geometer; an analyst to measure this earth’s mind. A poet, singer, artist, taking grey cubes, and bringing from them silver spheres entwined.

I’ll tell you everything.

I am your Nothing Wolf, will be, shall be, forever,

Fen’Harel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paradox is real, called Banach-Tarski: it can be proven with the axiom of choice. He doesn’t know that yet. 
> 
> En passant, I wonder if each darkspawn’s quantum, tunnelling? Good to know the cat’s always alive.
> 
> Important note to self: people, not pawns.


	15. Uncertain principal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Reckless O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,_   
>  _Sail forth -- steer for the deep waters only,_   
>  _For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,_   
>  _And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all._   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Eighth _sa'vunin_ , incomplete

Inquisitor,

I am sorry about Crestwood, but that I think you know.

I took you there, determined to explain. The double halla and the tingling Veil; the dancing moon in twilight and the pool. This world’s second kiss.

But then I realised: I must set you free. The fastest arrow sings the highest song, and all must be renounced to speed your flight. I let go of my pride, of my desire, of your sweet face, and heard you cry.

And stumbled off, a dark’s pawn to the end, yet guided by a not unkindly Wolf.

You will not quickly forget that night, I think. Nor will I. And that is as it must, and has to be. I must twist your heart until it burns. And freeze my own.

It came to me so fast, that blinding thought: a silent shaft of moonlight, a softer kiss.

I must not _make_ you do this: slaves should be set free. You now have choice.

Allowed to walk the path, yet not required to do it.

Shartan would have been proud.

****

Corypheus is come, and we ride out after dawn. I have spent much time in meditation since my last, and we have journeyed far as merely friends. Your trust was not misplaced. I have never once embarrassed you, or given you false hopes.

We both knew we were done.

Yet now? For one last time I’ll write: _what we had was real_. I still love you, and I think I always shall.

 _Vhenan_. A word no more lightly given, but darkly whispered here. One final truth sunk in impassive earth.

You have all the questions, and I only have half of the answers. I know you can be happy… if you are “strong and brave to hate the dark enough to save”. But take care! For the dragons, they are dying, broken-hearted.

But can I be happy? I simply do not know.

****

I must have faith. You are as a goddess to me, and my life, and my happiness, lie entirely within your hands. I wish you would teach me the songs from your world that I glimpse briefly from the Fade. I wish you would take me with you there. Perhaps I could be a scholar, or bake frilly cakes. It is too much to hope that I might be an artist, for I am sure the art of your world far surpasses mine. I would still like to see it.

And yet you do not know it. You looked to me, your wise guide, and saw my sorrow, but did not understand it. You are leaving me in limbo, saved and damned in one.

I have seen in everything you do, you are trying to understand. I will hold on to that hope.

I dare not believe in a Maker even so. Master Tethras has tried to counsel me, both directly and in passing. He plays cards with Cole: _two pairs beat one pair, four of a kind beat two pairs_ … and I walk away. My mind too full, my heart too heavy, for such hopes. He holds his crossbow in his hands and I wonder if its heart is broken. Burnt. Or merely blunted.

No. I cannot trust in a Maker, for who would make this path so cruel? The mountain path is fast but indirect, and yet you save the soldiers. I am your soldier in this as in everything. I pray to you to save me – this Solas – too.

Can the orb be saved? Still more, the world? I told you I hope it can, but fear it will be lost. I have suffered too much sadness in my life.

And yet, I keep on going. I am your soldier, and the world’s. I will endure.

Whatever it costs.

Whoever it slays.

Whenever it ends.

Even if I need to carve you out of sand each day, and watch the waves destroy you every night. Even then.

Even if I only hear dead whispers.

****

I have tried to remember the songs you sang to me at Sulevin. The language unfamiliar, the bright songs fresh and new. I imagine spinning discs and great choirs in the sky. Somehow your voice is joined by others, and great horns of metal: a music not the Qun’s but strong with purpose.

I can only remember fragments:

_Selig sind, die da Leid tragen, denn sie sollen getröstet warden._

_Die mit Tränen säen, werden mit Freuden ernten._

_Denn alles Fleisch es ist wie Gras und alle Herrlichkeit des Menschen wie des Grases Blumen._

_Aber des Herrn Wort bleibet in Ewigkeit._

_Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit; aber ich will euch wieder sehen und euer Herz soll sich freuen_

_Herr, du bist würdig zu nehmen Preis und Ehre und Craft..._

Or two voices singing of voyages to come.

O take me there!

****

_At this point the wall is empty of runes, behind the Wolf._

****

I left some _el’vhen’alas_ unlaid at the foot, in case I had time to return. We beat Corypheus and the orb is gone: a broken shell held by a broken man. A broken Sulevin blade and/or unreal.

A character? No, worse: merely a cipher. _Banal’abelas, banal’vhenan._ I could not bear to stay, for I am shattered. Your victory is great, yet cuts me deep. I flew back as a crow to Skyhold: one more black shadow in the night would not be marked.

The moon is full tonight.

****

And so I hide. They locked the door to keep the fresco from the drunks.

The party is starting outside without me: I expect Josephine will have done you proud. I flew in among the ravens and crouch low, painting fast with runes.

I will leave the dragon and the wolf undone: a ruined sketch in damp _el’seth’nu’las_.

Even a false Inquisitor (which you are not) would feel the pain of that.

I must not cry, for time is short again.

****

I wanted to leave you one last ray of hope. Assuming that you’re reading this at all.

Perhaps someday you will. I hope not too soon, lest its friction mar your flight.

Cole gave me my hope: _your friend wanted you to be happy, even though she knew you would not be_. And I know you would want me to be happy too. I’ve tried to renounce desire and think of you as friend, but it is hard. Pain is familiar and in time may heal. Did I ever have a choice?

I liked to think I chose to be the wolf. It could be worse: experience is life. But I had not grappled with my true strength till you came. Such strong desires are very hard to fight. Ah, damn this metre singing in my head! It will not let me go; it makes the runes more beautiful; in symmetry lies peace.

Or simply lies. The tortured wolf and dragon may remind you.

****

I might leave you one message sent via Cole, and keep him safe. He should not follow me, he is too young. Perhaps a new Sophiyel will arise.

If left alone, I’ll take my joy in thinking of my twin, and I will live, and love, in memory. Wisdom as its own reward, true epitaph for this dead Dirthamen. This too I must be doing out of love.

Do not weep for me too long, for this world needs me too. Those dragons must be slain, and none but I can slow the rising tide and save the People. I will lose myself again in finding purpose. Alas, poor Night! That it must truly envy to be free.

A prayer, my shining Day: that we might meet again in Twilight.

Will you still work to bring back what was lost?

The moon that brightens nightly overhead,  
The mountains that reach up to kiss the sun,  
The crow that perches on the roof behind?  
I'm watching from the wings, _emma vhenan_.

Remember the _Vir Tanadhal_ next time around: do not despise the memory of the bow. Nor yet the craft.

Always, and ever yours,

Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters are people too, and I was crying when I wrote this.
> 
> I sought solace in music. One place is in Brahms’ Ein Deutsches Requiem, especially the double and triple heartbeats in Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras. Since I have been talking about two and three dimensions in this story, that felt right. I can imagine Solas and Lavellan dancing to it… in another world. Or sitting in their starlit realm watching it as a ballet or an opera of their story. (Hopelessly romantic, me?)
> 
> If you like it, it’s well worth listening to all seven parts: a mirror of the dragons there as well. There are other songs and other heartbeats too, but that one works for me. So steady, and so strong: a living rock.


	16. Principled uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _…as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen…_   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  _To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,_   
>  _Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—_   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> The fresco in and of itself

It was a year since the victory and a year since he had left.

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan (Herald of Andraste, Vanquisher of the Rebel Mages of Ferelden, Giant Slayer, Legend-Marked, Belle of the Ball, Stargazer, etc.) walked into the rotunda and shed her titles.

Last week she had finally made the decision to move her office here. The view of the sky from her chambers was beautiful but too far from the people. And too far from his gift to her, the fresco.

She had them place her desk with her back to the last panel: the _sa’vunin_ of the dragon and the wolf. She told them that it stood as a reminder: that there was always more work to be done; that beauty was fleeting; that nothing was inevitable; that there was always hope that things could be better.

She never told them that it broke her heart.

She sat down at the desk and looked through the sheaf of papers. Reports from the Divine, scholarly parchments, Dagna’s latest weird designs, plans for the new roof.

And a torn and folded scrap of paper underneath. On the surface, Varric’s slanting scrawl: _I saw this and I thought of you._ A sonnet, from a Chant she’d never heard of: a chant for Dreamers?

Suddenly she was back in Crestwood again: seeing his eyes fall sad, hearing his voice: “I can’t…”, and something began to make sense.

****

Varric was (of course) in the Herald’s Rest. They took a table upstairs, apart.

“Where did you find this?” she hissed, pushing the paper back at him.

He picked it up quickly: the table was a mess. “Whatever it is, it’s probably ancient and invaluable. So try not to drop it in the ale.”

“Just. Tell. Me. Where.” she growled. Today she would be the dragon and the wolf.

“Somewhere in Haven. I just found it in my stuff today.”

“But it’s not yours?”

Varric sighed. “Look, when we were getting out of there I grabbed a lot of things that people left, in case they wanted them some day. All that mattered to me was getting Bianca out.”

“So could it have belonged to… to…”

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan (regal, well-funded, invincible, etc.) couldn’t say his name.

But Varric knew. He nodded. “I can’t be sure, you know. You know he never likes for anyone to see behind the mask.”

She gasped. “You think he’s still alive?”

“Don’t you?”

She gulped, and whispered, “I don’t know. I’ve had these dreams.”

“Have you tried writing them out? I mean, dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are. Who knows what elves might write, if they had a chance?”

“You told me Shartan wrote a book once.”

Varric chuckled. “So I did.”

“I don’t need certainty, just hope,” said the Inquisitor, as if she had said it many times before.

He downed his ale, and gave her back the sonnet. “That’s what I’m here for.”

****

The dreams were not so bad, that night. The next day she sat at her desk and thought. She’d known a lot, suspected much, felt deadened, deafened, jealous, angry… and forgiven. She’d dreamt the Nightmare, lain in the boat, and seen him dying again and again.

She remembered staring blindly at the moon, imagining it in pain. Longing to share it.

She remembered dawn over mountains and Titan(s) underneath. _There is a Titan here_ , she’d said, and wondered if he heard. His mind a fastened book she wished he’d share.

She remembered completing each mosaic, curating statues, collecting every shard, opening Solasan and finding only emptiness and demons. It worried her.

She remembered, early on, standing in Razikale’s temple, without him there. To smash Andraste’s face and tear the halla from her hands. From jealousy, not spite. She knew they meant a lot to him, but not quite how or when. Or who. They’d have to fight her first.

She remembered fear and heard his voice: _There’s much, much more trouble to come._

 _Two kisses._ So he sought to keep her safe. But for whom? Or what?

****

The next night she dreamed they were back in Haven, at the start. He was cautious, probing, using the mask to convey some deeper truths.

“I am an apostate mage, surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.”

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to.”

He had thanked her, knowing what she then did not: the true depths of his ruin. For her it was a birthing of a purpose through desire. She knew she had chosen to love: and she had made a promise that she needed to make good, or be forsworn. Their love had grown and become real, but it was the promise that had mattered. She could not, would not, let him down, if any path were offered.

Even if it meant he was not hers.

****

A shy knock at the open door: the Arcanist.

“Do come in, Dagna”, she carolled, sweetly. _Smith Caste,_ she thought: linked to mages?

“Inquisitor? I know you always come to me, but I couldn’t wait…”

The little scholar stopped, and looked around. “I’ve never been in here. This is amazing. It feels as if the Stone is singing all around. Very quietly, but it’s there. And the sparkling runes…”

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan (sharp-eyed, focused) sat forward in her chair.

“What do you mean, the stone? What runes?”

“Can’t you see the runes? Under the fresco. They must be in the stone.”

****

It turned out Dagna was the only one to see them; Varric hadn’t lied. And the Orzammar envoy who came at great expense and grumbling, on some pretext? He couldn’t see them either, even without the blindfold. It took a week to wash the blackout from the library windows; she knew they thought her mad. She was grateful to Dorian for soothing them, and for never asking why.

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan (on burning wings) flew back to her office in the sky each night, clutching each precious sheaf. Thanking heaven for Dagna’s accuracy in tracing. Each glyph had to be painstakingly re-created in veilfire on a stone, before the images and words could sing again. A good excuse to make Varric tidy up the war room corridor: no more loose stones there!

Dagna inspected each glyph and told her when they were in tune with the rotunda. She signed off all the Arcanist’s requests, and swore her to secrecy on the Sulevin Blade.

Otherwise, only Varric knew, and she didn’t make him swear.

****

It took eight months of evenings: after work, after duties, after dusk. Deciphering, re-making the lost art of veilfire, re-learning Elvish. Varric made her cups of tea and told her to get more sleep. He didn’t know it carried on in dreams.

Some parts were easy: _ar lath ma, vhenan_. That part she always believed: _what we had was real_. But now she remembered standing in Dirthamen’s lost temple, wondering again how old it was, veilfire glyphs unravelling in her mind. So was it his, or had he just usurped it? Did he even know?

Brightest of her age (etc.), she prayed to all gods, none, and to the sun and moon: searching equally for wisdom and compassion, pride and fear. _And let us free the slaves._ She feared for Dorian, and Sera.

She let Josephine at last install a mirror in her chambers, and meditated there. A mirror not a mirror, for it was many things to her. It let her travel in time, within restrictions, and explore the Fade.

She imagined a past self with new _vallaslin_ , a brother elf, a dwarf. A dragon and a Titan, a massive flaming sword. It pierced through the eye of the watcher, and she shuddered.

She contacted Hawke, and through Leliana the Hero of Ferelden, and signed a secret treaty for their aid. _A Band of Three_ , she thought, if time required. Hawke suggested the belles of Hunter Fell might be the beaux of the Fell Hunter, and she wondered.

She deconstructed Wisdom to find Pride, in all his mirrors. Although the shining steeds had been more apt than she had thought, his nostalgia for the griffons made her smile. She longed to tell him they were _not_ extinct, but that would have to wait.

****

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan (people person, marked for greatness) assessed everyone in Skyhold, and wondered what and whom she would need to let go first. His writings carried certain warnings. Nonetheless he had been reluctant to condemn anyone; she could be less constrained, if she chose. No-one would be beyond suspicion, nor would she leap too soon.

And then she read the glyphs again, and smiled. _Whatever happens, what we had was real._

Perhaps it would be sufficient just to hope. Was it truly alone if they were separated by time? Perhaps not, but it did seem such a shame.

She thought then of _Hanal’ghilan._ Finding the path is one thing: it’s walking it that’s hard.

_I’m sorry, Cole, but with your gift, I fear you might see the path that I must now walk in solitude forever. This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for. Though you reach out in compassion, I must now insist that you forget._

But he had let her remember, and thereby let her hope.

That night she dreamed of dancing at Halamshiral: of starlit nights and dragon flights; of silver realms and battle helms. Of wolves eclipsing sun and moon in turn, and biting back. Of double hallas standing by a lake; a boat. Of dwarves and elves, and the faith required to change. Of a wise man known as Pride and a rift mage turning Templar. And of him smiling, somewhere, safe at last.

At last she had the letters whole: uncertain but complete.

****

Lady Inquisitor Lavellan (beloved and precious) walked on to the balcony, alone. _I was right to go to Sulevin_ , she thought. Love never fails.

Then: _scrappy is better than flawless_. Behind her, Varric, bringing tea and Cole.

“The moon is bright tonight,” said Cole. “I wonder what the dark side thinks.”

“It’s waiting for the avalanche,” said Varric.

She nodded. “Suppose it fell: a melted glacier. What could you see in the water, boys?”

“It climbed on the ladder, with the wind in its sails. She came like a comet, blazing her trails,” whispered Cole, looking up.

She turned to Varric. “If you shot into the water with Bianca would you hit ten thousand stars? The sun and moon? Or just one particular lady?”

Varric chuckled. “Firing the bow’s one thing, it’s reconstructing it that’s hard.”

And the Herald of Andraste closed her eyes in prayer, so as not to see the rainbow fill the sky.

 

 

{ }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They locked the door to keep the fresco from the drunks. I hope I have not ruined it.


End file.
